


Revenge

by Juliska



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Genocide, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, World of Warcraft: Battle for Azeroth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-09 08:53:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12273057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juliska/pseuds/Juliska
Summary: “Revenge, the sweetest morsel to the mouth that was ever cooked in hell.”-Walter Scott, The Heart of Mid-Lothian





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for up to chapter 4 of Catastrophe.
> 
> This is an AU, set in the same universe.

_Author’s Note: World of Warcraft is copyright Blizzard Entertainment. Used without permission or profit._

#

“Revenge, the sweetest morsel to the mouth that was ever cooked in hell.”   
-Walter Scott, The Heart of Mid-Lothian

#

Hrolf Driscoll sighed and looked around as he entered the ruins of the ancient troll settlement. He had no idea why he was even assigned here to the Plaguelands and he was not too keen on it. Something about finding some sort of ancient artifact. It was a waste of time, he was sure - it was likely either destroyed during the incessant fighting between the elves and trolls or had been pillaged long ago.

“I don’t believe it’s here,” Lieutenant Llenrus Wildstar said quietly, overturning some rubble in the corner.

“Of course it isn’t. This is a waste of time. Sir,” Hrolf muttered to the night elf. He added the sir at the end just to remember his formalities. He did not really dislike the officer, but the elf was never particularly friendly or open with his emotions. It was impossible to get much of a read on the man. “The armies are just now returning from Argus. They may need relief. We should be there to help.”

The night elf waved his hand, slightly dismissively. “For whatever reason, our dwarven allies believe that whatever is here in the Plaguelands will aid the Alliance. We had best find it before the Horde does. These are their lands . . . More or less. They’ll have an easier time searching for it than we will if we leave and have to come back.”

The Gilnean rolled his eyes. “I doubt they are even looking for the artifact. Most of the Horde doesn’t strike me as . . . intellectually curious.”

“The blood elves and Forsaken are, and they’d be the ones to find it. You shouldn’t underestimate them. They would not have survived this long if they were stupid.”

Hrolf started to mention that neither race had done a great job surviving, but he decided to drop it, continuing his search. Finally, after what seemed like hours, he brushed off his hands. “Nope. Not here.”

“On to the next place, I suppose,” the elf replied nonchalantly, walking back out of the camp.

The two walked along in relative silence, half because they had little to talk about and half because they were listening for the ever present Scourge. It was odd that the Horde had not wiped out the remnants of it yet. Were they that incompetent? Or was it their way to keep the most errant races in the fold?

The man’s thoughts were interrupted when Llenrus spoke. “You know, if you had not angered the Captain, he wouldn’t have sent you here. He thought you couldn’t be trusted on the Vindicaar.”

“What? Why?”

“Well, you tend to get into spats with our friends in the Horde,” the night elf laughed. “If you had hurt someone onboard or vice versa, it was likely to cause a diplomatic issue.”

Hrolf narrowed his eyes. “They don’t deserve to be our allies.”

“Perhaps not. But if we’re going to survive, it takes working with them at least some of the time,” Llenrus continued, then came to a dead halt. He raised his hand to stop Hrolf, then pointed with his other one.

In a clearing between the sparse trees was a white hawkstrider. Its rider, a dark haired female sin’dorei, was pushing the poor beast almost to exhaustion. She finally slowed and looked around nervously. Obviously she did not see the two Alliance soldiers, because she started singing a wavering tune, very faintly.

“Let her pass,” Llenrus whispered, apparently sensing his subordinate’s bloodlust. “There’s no need to engage her as long as she doesn’t see us.”

Of course, no sooner had he spoken that the girl looked over at them and froze. Then, the next moment she spurred the hawkstrider harder, continuing south with a small green package bouncing on her back.

Llenrus sighed. “Go. Take her down.”

Hrolf grinned and quickly shifted to his worgen form, giving chase. The poor mount must have been run half to death, since he caught up to the girl within a hundred yards. He reached up and grabbed her arm and pulled, sending her flying to the ground with a yelp. He expected that. He did not expect the higher pitched wail from what he thought was a pack on her back.

The surprise caused him to stop approaching her, at least momentarily. She had a bow slung over her shoulder that she grabbed with a shaking hand. “S-stay back!” she stuttered nervously in Common. He quickly drew his sword and approached, but took notice that she did not reach for an arrow, instead holding her arm close to her chest.

He felt something hit him hard in the stomach and he winced, glancing down. It was the girl’s “pack” - a little orcling. He was yelling something in Orcish, and although his strikes were not really painful, they were annoying. To his surprise, the girl let go over her bow and grabbed onto the child’s arm, pulling away. When the boy looked back at her, he threw his arms around her neck and buried his face in her chest, still speaking in Orcish.

Llenrus walked up beside him and looked down at their “catch.” The elf sighed. “You have quite the unfortunate luck, little Bloodfeather,” he said to the girl, then turned back to Hrolf. “This is the same girl from Stormheim.”

Hrolf looked back down at her, closer this time. It was that girl. He frowned slightly at her eyepatch - he felt a little . . . Guilty about what had happened. It had gone further than he had anticipated, he had to begrudgingly admit. He sighed and resumed his human form, staring down at the two. The orc was still whimpering something. The only word he recognized was “demon.”

Whatever he had asked the girl, she nodded her head, still staring at them. Although Hrolf did not know the language, he knew that Llenrus did, and he noticed as the night elf scowled at the blood elf momentarily.

Llenrus sighed and crouched down. “Where are you in such a hurry to go?”

The girl stared at him, an odd look on her face now that the terror was gone from it. “U-Undercity,” she said shakily after a long pause.

Llenrus looked at her, then down to where her arm was pressed to her chest. Her other arm was wrapped around the child, but that one still had not moved. The night elf looked back up at her. “You’re injured. The Scourge will tear the two of you apart before you make it through the Plaguelands,” he said plainly, standing back up. He looked over at Hrolf and shook his head. “Still, I’m not one to harm children. Return to Quel’thalas, girl, and remember that the Alliance treated you with mercy here today.”

To their surprise, her face hardened and she shook her head. “Nether take you. Get out of my way. I have to go to Undercity,” she said, struggling to her feet, holding onto the orc’s hand with her own uninjured one.

“You’ll die,” Llenrus repeated patiently.

She started forward and past them, limping now. Evidently it was not only her arm that was injured. As she went past them, Hrolf could smell burnt meat, like a pig on a spit. Now that he could see her back clearly, her cloak was charred almost black.

Llenrus took a few rapid steps and grabbed onto her arm, pulling her back. Her knees buckled as soon as she was grabbed and she half collapsed onto the orcling. The night elf quickly released his grip, but only for a moment, then grabbed her hand again, slowly pushing her sleeve up and gasping. “By Elune,” he whispered.

Hrolf got closer, looking down at whatever the officer had found. A blue spider web of glowing burns enveloped her arm. It was hard to tell where else they might spread. “What the fel is that?” he asked, looking at his commander.

“Arcane burns. They look to be all over her,” the night elf said quietly, staring at the girl, who was now simply staring at the dirt in front of where she was kneeling. “I don’t know how this happened, but you must return to your people, child.” He spoke quietly and gently, with a reassuring tone. “You’re badly hurt. You need to return to Quel’thalas so you can find a healer. We can take you as close to a settlement as is safe but . . .”

“I have to go to Undercity,” she repeated, part of the anger from a few seconds prior being replaced with panic again. “I have to go to Undercity.”

“We can’t take you to Undercity. It’s too far and too dangerous for you to take a child through, as badly injured as you are. You can return to one of your southern settlements.”

“I can’t. I can’t.”

Llenrus gritted his teeth. Hrolf could tell her was beginning to get more and more disturbed by the situation. He looked back up at the Sergeant and then back down at the girl, who was now clutching the orc again. “And why can’t you go back?”

“B-because it’s gone,” she said, her voice picking up more panic. “All gone. Everything’s gone. Everyone’s gone.”

#

Llenrus stared down at the young blood elf and sighed. He and Hrolf had gotten into a heated discussion about what to do with their . . . prisoners. It seemed to be an inappropriate term. He had little interest in keeping either of them, but he did not see any other humane thing to do.

The girl had tried twice more to run, but each time they caught her and made her sit back against the tree again. Hrolf at one point suggested to let her go and get herself killed if that’s what she wanted, but she refused to leave the child with them. At that point the Gilnean lost his temper until Llenrus had managed to calm him down.

They finally decided to take them back to the rallying point. The second surveying team was comprised of a draenei and another kaldorei, the latter of which was a druid. She would be able to heal the girl enough for her to at least not die of shock in the next few hours.

So they started walking, he leading the way and Hrolf bringing up the rear to keep them from running again. Llenrus glanced over his shoulder. The little orc (whose name he had learned was Atas) was clutching onto her uninjured arm, half supporting her and half pulling her down. She did not complain or try to pull her arm away, though she was shaking badly. Really, they both were, although Llenrus had checked the child carefully and he appeared to be unhurt. They were just a pitiful pair of refugees, although he decided not to mention it to them or the Gilnean yet.

“I want to go home,” the little orc was saying in Orcish. “I want to go home.”

The girl looked over at him, opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again.

Llenrus shook his head slightly and faced forward again. Something horrific had obviously happened, and he had a sickening feeling he knew what it was.

Little Atas had asked the girl, “Are those the demons?”

She had told him yes.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author’s Note: World of Warcraft is copyright Blizzard Entertainment. Used without permission or profit._

#

“Why should I heal her?” the druid asked, crossing her arms and standing before Llenrus.

He sighed at her. “Because I’m in charge here, and it’s an order.”

“She’s a blood elf.”

“Our own laws dictate that we are responsible for the safety and health of any prisoners we take,” he explained patiently.

“Why didn’t you leave her be, then?”

“Because I don’t kill children,” he finally snapped. “The boy wouldn’t survive by himself, and she’s hardly an adult either. Look at her.” He motioned toward the open tent that Hrolf was standing before, guarding it. It was probably not needed. The young blood elf had barely had to strength to walk by the time they got to the rallying point. She lay in there with her eyes closed and shivering as the little orc talked to her quietly, evidently telling her a story. “I doubt she has even reached halfway mark of her first century.”

The woman glanced inside and frowned slightly. “It’s not our fault they let someone so young fight. She’s still a Horde soldier.”

“I doubt they have anyone else to send. Probably even fewer now,” he said. “We need to find out if what she says was true. We can’t get any information from her if she’s dead, and I’m not going to rely on a toddler’s testimony. Now go do as I said, Nightdew. Please?”

The druid, Ca’lyn Nightdew, nodded curtly and walked inside, kneeling next to the sin’dorei. Hrolf and Llenrus followed. The orcling jumped slightly and backed away as they approached, but there was not much room in the tent and he seemed reticent to leave his caretaker. Still, the slight commotion made the girl open her eye and look around blearily. She shrunk away slightly from the druid.

“Relax, girl,” Ca’lyn said in Common with forced gentleness. “I can heal your wounds, at least somewhat. Where all are you injured?”

Belidora looked at her but did not respond. Her skin was pale and damp and she looked slightly confused, her one eye unfocused.

Ca’lyn bit her lip and reached down. “I need to remove your armor, girl, so I can see. Just relax.”

The sin’dorei quickly shrunk away again, pushing the night elf’s hand away. She glanced at the two men nervously and shook her head. Her breathing quickly became even more rapid.

Hrolf stepped forward and crouched down. He reached up to his neck and unfastened his cloak, taking it off and draping it over the girl. “Here. Keep this on. You’re cold, aren’t you?” he said quietly. Belidora numbly reached up and fingered the soft fur, gripping it in a soot blackened hand and nodded. She did not thank him, but at least she stopped hyperventilating.

“We’ll take our leave of you ladies,” Llenrus said quietly to Ca’lyn in Common, and then switched to Orcish. It was a difficult language for him to speak legibly. “Come now, child. My friend needs to check under your friend’s clothes. It’s not proper for us men to be in here for that.”

Atas looked over at Belidora nervously and whispered something that Llenrus could not quite hear. Still, the girl nodded dumbly and he stood up, following Llenrus and Hrolf out of the tent. The night elf looked over at the man. “That was surprisingly kind of you to give her your cloak.”

The Gilnean did not respond for a few seconds, then snorted. “Can’t have her dying. We need to find out what’s going on. See if she’s telling the truth.”

“Well, something obviously happened,” Llenrus replied. “And she evidently blames us for it.” He reached back and put his hand on the orc’s shoulder, guiding him along gently. They did not seem to have much to fear of the boy overhearing something. He evidently did not understand any Common. They got to a clearing where he guided to the orc to a rock, lifted him up on it, and let him have a seat. “What’s your name?” he asked, switching to the awkward language again. Obviously he knew the answer, but he wished to put the child at ease.

The boy hesitated, looking back and forth between the two men, then finally said quietly, “Atas.”

“My name is Llenrus. This is Hrolf.”

The boy nodded silently, looking back down. “When can we leave?” he whined.

“I don’t know. Your friend is hurt. She can’t go anywhere,” Llenrus said.

“You attacked us.”

“Yes. Well, she’s an enemy soldier. We couldn’t have her getting her friends to come get us,” he said. There was no use lying about it, after all. “We did not know that she was that badly hurt, though. Can you tell me how she was hurt?”

Atas frowned at them, then looked down at the ground. “Protecting me.”

“Oh? Well, that’s very brave of her. What was she protecting you from?”

“When can we leave?” Atas blurted out again. “We need to go see the Warchief. That’s where she said we were going. The Warchief will protect us.”

“I told you, not right now. Your elf friend needs to rest,” he repeated. “Now, can you please tell me who did this to her? It’s very important. We may be able to get some of our friends to help you.”

“No you won’t,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “You’re evil. I don’t trust you.”

“I’m only asking so I can try to help your friend. It’s harder for Ca’lyn to heal her if she does not know how the injury occurred,” he said, ignoring the insult completely. “Ca’lyn is a druid. You have druids where you live, yes?”

Atas hesitated slightly. “In Orgrimmar. Trolls and Tauren,” he said, frowning, then narrowed his eyes again. “I want to go back and see Miss Belidora,” he demanded sliding off of the rock and trying to walk back toward the tent. “I have to protect her. She said after she got hurt that she needed a brave warrior to protect her and that’s me.”

Llenrus quickly got in front of him and caught him by the shoulder, stopping him as gently as he could. “That’s . . . very noble, brave warrior. The way you can help your friend is to tell us what is going on, though. I promise you, we will help protect you both if we only know what it is we’re facing. Sometimes . . . things happen where we have to work together, even if we do not always get along.”

Atas frowned and kicked up some dust. He obviously did not want to talk, but finally he said quietly. “A demon killed everyone. All the elves,” he said.

“A demon . . . killed everyone?” Llenrus asked quietly. “How do you know? What exactly happened?”

“We were fishing, out in the woods. There was some yelling and Miss Belidora grabbed me and everything turned blue and purple. Now everyone’s dead. We stole one of those birds to go find the Warchief so she can protect us.”

Llenrus frowned and translated the information back to Hrolf.

The Gilnean frowned. “The kid doesn’t make any sense. He doesn’t know what in the fel is going on. You said that girl had arcane burns.”

“She does. I’m certain of it,” Llenrus replied, then looked back down at the boy, switching back to Orcish. “You said a demon did this? That doesn’t make sense, child. Perhaps one of the blood elves had an accident while experimenting with arcane magic.”

Atas growled at them, which coming from an orcling, was a much less threatening gesture than it would be in about twenty years. “It wasn’t an elf. It was a demon,” he said stubbornly and pointed at Hrolf. “A demon like him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's one thing I know from teaching Sunday School, it's that kids' stories never make sense.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These short little chapters are fun to write. I need to use this more often.

_Author’s Note: World of Warcraft is copyright Blizzard Entertainment. Used without permission or profit._

#

  
Ca’lyn glanced over at her sleeping . . . patient. The girl had finally blacked out on the bed of grass and flowers that the druid had formed to help her healing along. The burns were mostly concentrated on her back and were horrendous, leaving a spider web of scars all over her back and arms, like she was struck by lightning a half dozen times. It was a wonder she had survived without the shock overcoming her.

The druid sighed as the young blood elf stirred slightly and opened her eye, glancing around blearily. “Wh-where?” she whispered in Thalassian.

Fortunately the language was close enough to Darnassian for Ca’lyn to understand, although she chose to respond in Common. “You’re in the Plaguelands, in an Alliance camp, girl. Don’t move.”

The younger woman swallowed and nodded slightly. “Wh-where’s Atas?” she whispered.

“He went with the others. He’s fine, I’m sure. The Alliance tries to avoid harming innocent children, unlike you.”

The blood elf opened her mouth and was about to say something when the flap of the tent opened and she fell silent. Ca’lyn glanced over her shoulder at the person making her way in and sighed. “Where have you been, Yrala?”

“I got lost on my way back,” she said quietly, frowning when she saw their “guest.” “Who is this?” she asked.

“Someone the Lieutenant and Sergeant dragged in,” Ca’lyn replied. “They found a little orcling, too.”

The draenei nodded and walked over, bending down and sticking out her hand. “Hello, little one. My name is Yrala. What’s yours?”

The elf jumped slightly and blinked, but did not return the offer of a handshake. At least she answered the query, though. “B-Belidora,” she said weakly, fingering the fur on Hrolf’s cloak nervously.

The draenei took the rejection in stride. “You look like you’ve run into someone you should not have picked a fight with.”

“Actually, we’re not entirely sure what happened to her,” Ca’lyn explained. “She hasn’t been very forthcoming with information.”

She noticed the young elf glare at her, but the girl then turned away and closed her eye again. Ca’lyn sighed. “I’m not entirely sure what else to do with her. She’s in shock and seems to be sick,” she whispered to the draenei, getting up and motioning her to follow to the other end of the tent. “She may die, even with healing. And the Lieutenant said that she kept saying…” she trailed off.

“Saying what?”

“That everyone in Quel’thalas is dead,” Ca’lyn said, shaking her head. “That makes no sense, though. Perhaps her village was destroyed and she’s just scared. There’s no way on Azeroth that all of them are dead. Who would have that much power? Besides, the Legion is all but defeated and the Amani trolls are scattered. Who would even want to do that?”

“Are you saying that you would not choose to?” Yrala asked.

“Of course not!” she said, aghast, then paused for a moment. “I mean . . . no, I wouldn’t want to kill so many innocent people.” Her voice was a bit quieter and she looked at the girl, pensive. She had argued about healing her, after all. She was different, though - she was a soldier, not some merchant or teacher. You had to treat your enemies a bit more harshly, right?

The flap of the tent opened again, and the little orc ran inside, followed by the two men. Atas rushed over to the blood elf and grabbed her around her neck in a hug. It was a wonder she managed not to scream, but she slowly extricated herself from the orcling’s grasp and smiled weakly at him. He was telling her something quietly, gripping a small stick tightly in his hand and glancing back at the others.

“Find out anything?” Ca’lyn asked quietly.

“We found out that Driscoll is evidently a servant of the Burning Legion,” Llenrus replied.

“I am not!” the man snapped.

“Really, I don’t know why you’re taking such offense at it. You’re the one who said he was a dumb child who didn’t know anything,” Llenrus said, smiling over at his subordinate, then looked back at the women. “We’re going to ride north, see what we can find out. You two stay here with our guests, and be on the lookout for any trouble. If there’s any truth at all to any of this, we need to be on guard.”

#

“This is oddly quiet,” Hrolf muttered, glancing around from the back of his horse. Eversong Woods looked as normal as usual, he supposed. He had never actually been to the high elf homeland, so he was not quite sure. Still, it seemed completely empty. He knew that there were not a great number of elves left after the Scourge devastated their people, but he expected some activity as they got closer and closer to Silvermoon.

Not even the animals seemed to be roaming about.

“It is,” Llenrus replied quietly. “I don’t like it. Not that I want to run into the Farstriders, but still - there should be at least some merchants delivering wares to the villages. Children playing, hunters going after game, something!” The night elf frowned. “Plus, I have this strangest feeling. There’s a great deal of power ahead.”

“Yeah,” Hrolf replied. “There’s that well thing of theirs.”

“The Sunwell. This is different. More diffuse,” Llenrus replied, glancing back at the human.

“Perhaps the Scourge overtook them again?”

“There would be signs of that. The forest would be destroyed, there would be signs of battle. It’s like they simply disappeared from the face of the planet,” he said. “If something has happened, it happened with incredible speed and violence.”

“Like a blast from an unknown attacker like that kid said?” Hrolf grunted, frowning. It was eerie and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Had he been in his worgen form, he was fairly certain that it would be quite noticeable. He was slightly glad he was not, although being normal made him feel a bit more vulnerable.

“By the Goddess,” Llenrus blurted out, and Hrolf had to pull back on the reins to keep his horse from colliding with the Lieutenant’s. He pulled around and looked at what the night elf said, and froze stock still.

They had reached a small outcropping of rocks, giving them an elevated position with which to look in the distance. There was Silvermoon City - or what remained of it - glowing in purple and blue. The ruins to the west had remained fairly untouched, but the eastern half of the city - the half which would have been populated - was completely leveled.

“Light. Those kids were telling the truth,” Hrolf said quietly, swallowing. It slowly occurred to him that they had likely been standing there in the open gawking for the last several minutes, but the thought was quickly dismissed with the next one - _It’s not like anyone is going to be finding us now._

He felt like the lowest scum for his logic.

The Gilnean swallowed and looked over at his Lieutenant. “What do you think happened?” he asked quietly.

Llenrus took a few seconds to answer him, as if he did not really hear him, but finally looked over for a moment before continuing to stare at the ruined city. “It’s definitely arcane in origin,” he said, his voice sounding as if his mouth had gone dry. “No mage I know of could have possibly created a blast this big. Not even Khadgar. Elune, I doubt Azshara could have done this.”

The human stared down at the city below. He had seen this before. Not to this scale, no, but the damage pattern was unmistakable.

“I think I know how it was done,” he muttered. “We need . . . we need to get back to the others, sir.”

“How?” Llenrus said, spinning around to look at him.

“I saw . . . I saw it at Theramore, when we went to see if anything could be salvaged. It . . . it’s a mana bomb.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another new chapter whaaaaat?
> 
> Also I have a direction I want to go with this now so that's always a good thing.

_Author’s Note: World of Warcraft is copyright Blizzard Entertainment. Used without permission or profit._

#

When Llenrus and Hrolf finally made it back to their camp - it seemed to take forever - the young blood elf was at least sitting up, albeit shakily and having to lean her side against the tent post. Atas was talking to her quietly, drawing something in the dirt with his stick ‘sword’ that he had picked up.

“Ah, see? What would you guys do without me?” Yrala said when she saw them come in. “Oh no, you never want to try my potions, but look how much better the child is feeling. I told you I know what I’m doing.”

“That’s . . . great. Look, ladies, we need to talk. In private,” he said, waving the two of them outside. Once they were there, he let the flap of the tent fall and frowned, walking until they were out of earshot, but careful to keep an eye on the entrance to the tent. When the four of them were far enough away that he was certain the blood elf and orc could not hear them, he spoke. “It’s true. Silvermoon is completely destroyed.”

“How?” Ca’lyn whispered.

“Mana bomb, far as we can tell,” Hrolf said. “Judging by the girl’s burns, I’d say it was a pretty accurate guess. Must’ve been just far enough away to survive.”

“We need to return to a capital city as soon as possible,” Llenrus continued, sighing at the two women’s shocked looks. “The High King and others need to know about this, preferably before word spreads through the Horde.” He frowned. “We’ll ride for Aerie Peak immediately. It’s not the easiest place to get to, but…”

“Sir, what are we going to do with them?” Hrolf interrupted, pointing back at the tent.

Llenrus sighed. “I guess we’ll take them with us. I’m sure the Wildhammer dwarves could negotiate something with the Forsaken to release them once we’re gone.”

“That’s the thing,” Ca’lyn said. “Who did the bombing? Was it us?”

Llenrus looked at the three of them, grim, but nodded. “That would be my guess.”

“What do you think their benevolent Warchief will do when that girl tells her that? She’ll drop plague on our cities. It will be a massacre,” Hrolf said. “Theramore was horrendous enough, but to destroy a capital city of the Horde…”

Llenrus frowned at him and glanced back at the tent. He was obviously deep in thought, then sighed, turning back to Hrolf and pulling out the short dagger he kept on his belt. He spun it around in his hand and handed it to the Gilnean hilt first. “Go on, then. Do the boy first so he won’t know what’s coming, and do them separately. Try not to let them suffer. They’ve done enough of that in the past day.”

The night elf watched as the Gilnean’s blue eyes widened and he stared at the blade, then looked pleadingly over at the women. They simply frowned at him. He reached out and took the knife, looking down at it. After several more seconds, he said quietly, “I . . . I can’t do that.”

Llenrus took his sword back and looked at the others. “Either of you want to volunteer?” When they shook their heads, he sheathed his sword once again. “Good. I don’t think I can either. Yrala, go get them onto a horse. The girl can ride one of the pack beasts, the boy can ride with me. Make sure she can hold on without falling off.”

The draenei nodded and they started to go back to the tent. As the others went to pack up they heard a gasp from the tent. “They’re gone!”

Llenrus ran over and threw back the flap. Sure enough, a slice was cut down the back of the tent and their prisoners were nowhere to be seen. “What in the fel did she cut it with?” he swore.

“Um, um . . . Oh!” Yrala said. “I was cutting up some herbs for the potion I gave her and I left the knife right . . .”

“Nevermind! Hrolf! Go find them. The girl has a knife, but she couldn’t have gotten far,” Llenrus growled, rubbing his forehead.

#

Belidora stifled a scream as she stumbled again. She had half crawled, half walked from the back of the tent after cutting the hole. At least Atas was strong for his size - if it had been a goblin or blood elf child she had taken with her, this would likely have never worked. As it was, he was helping support her as they made their way.

“We have to hurry,” the boy was saying, pulling on her arm.

“I-I know,” she whispered, glancing back at the camp. They were not very far away from it, unfortunately. She knew there was no way she could get away, but there was a tiny Raventusk settlement nearby. They may not give her refuge, given their history with the elves, but they would for a little orc orphan.

“How many times are we going to do this, girl?” a voice said from behind her, not long after she turned forward again. She froze and gripped the knife tighter, spinning around and holding it between them and the Gilnean.

He did not even bother to use his worgen form, simply looking down at the knife and back at her. He pulled his sword out. “You know how this ends, elf,” he said, frowning. He was not his usual arrogant, vicious self. “You know you can’t fight me, and I’ll outrun you each time. Put down the knife.” When she gripped it tighter, he continued. “Please don’t make me hurt you in front of the boy. You’re responsible for his safety, not just your own.”

She glanced back at the orc, who she was half pushing behind her, and frowned. She looked back at Hrolf. “Please just let us go.”

The man sighed. “I can’t do that. Come on, now. Put it down.”

She looked at Atas again. She could tell him to run, but he had no idea where he was. It would be a certain death sentence. With the Alliance, even if it were a small chance, he might be able to survive. She looked back at Hrolf and let the knife drop from her shaking hand. The Gilnean stepped forward and grabbed onto the collar of her shirt, pulling him along with him as he ignored the orcling hitting him again.

They got to the camp and the Lieutenant rolled his eyes as the Gilnean, motioning toward a horse that was tied to a second one. “Make sure she won’t run again,” he ordered.

Hrolf nodded and pulled her over to the horse, helping her get onto it. He undid the leather straps of the reins and pulled her hands in front of her, beginning to bind her wrists together tightly to the horn.

“You don’t need to do that,” she whispered, wincing.

“It’s this or I can toss you over the back of my horse like a hog. Your choice.”

“Where are you taking us?” she demanded quietly.

“We’re going to Stormwind. Eventually,” Llenrus said, approaching the horse. “There, you can tell the High King your story. What happened in Quel’thalas.”

“I won’t.”

“I don’t believe I gave you a choice,” he said. “Now, you can hold on to the saddle to steady yourself, but if you try to spur the horse on, I’ll have to take more violent measures to keep you under control. We’re a long way from our territory. I suggest you cooperate for your own comfort. Do you understand?”

She narrowed her eye at him but silently nodded.

“Good. Let’s get moving, then.”

#

Six hours later, it was too dark to continue the journey, so the group decided to set up camp for the night.

Hrolf had muttered that he would take first watch, giving the others some time around the fire. Llenrus glanced over at the young blood elf and orc. The orc was sleeping, his head resting on her lap. She would glance down at him every once in awhile. Her hands were still bound and he had briefly considered tying her to one of the trees, but she had begun shivering as they got further up into the mountains. He decided she could stay by the fire.

Really, she had not caused any more problems, and had barely made eye contact as the day dragged on. Now, she simply stared at the campfire with a sad expression on her face.

Yrala walked over to the girl and knelt in front of her. “You’re shivering, child. Here,” she said, taking the blanket off her shoulders draping it over the elf.

That seemed to snap the girl out of her daze and she looked up at the draenei. She stared at her for a moment before muttering, “Thank you.”

Yrala smiled sadly and pushed a strand of hair behind the elf’s long ear. “I know you’re hurting, child. Probably better than you realize,” she said, stroking her cheek gently. She got up. “I’m going to go get a blanket for your little orc friend.”

When the draenei got up and walked to the tent, Belidora looked back down at Atas and sighed, looking at the flames again. Ca’lyn was trying to cook dinner and Llenrus was keeping an eye on the two prisoners, although the sin’dorei seemed too defeated to try anything again. He sighed. “Why do you have an orc child with you anyway?” he asked.

She did not look at him, but after several seconds she responded. “Children’s Week,” she said quietly. “After the Broken Shore, the orphanage in Orgrimmar was too full. They sent some of the children to other cities. Sen’jin Village, Thunder Bluff, Silvermoon.” She paused for a moment. “I always go and take a kid out to play for Children’s Week. I don’t have any family either, so some of them can relate to me. Left the Vindicaar for a week, used up all my leave.”

Two thoughts crossed Llenrus’s mind. First was that children from every Horde race likely died in the explosion, which was a terrible tragedy, only compounded by the fact that it was likely to be a rallying point in the coming war. Second, he had about four days before the girl’s friends came looking for her when she “overstayed her leave.” That was at the absolute maximum.

He sighed and looked at the flames again, feeling a bit ill at using such horrible calculus, when he heard a choked sob come from the girl. “I-I’m sorry.”

He and Ca’lyn both looked up to see her wiping tears from her face with her bound hands. They exchanged a glance and Llenrus asked her, “You’re sorry for what?”

“Y-you were right,” she said shakily. “We’ve done so much wrong. We taught the humans how to use magic, we bombed cities. Th-this is our punishment, isn’t it? Y-you were right. I’m so sorry.”

Llenrus and Ca’lyn looked at each other again, both too shocked to know what to say. Llenrus had thought the same thoughts about their high elf cousins for millenia, had thought of the crimes they had committed and the arrogance they played with other people’s lives with their magic. But now . . .

  
Now he was not sure he could accept the reality of the “punishment” he thought they deserved for so long.


	5. Chapter 5

_Author’s Note: World of Warcraft is copyright Blizzard Entertainment. Used without permission or profit._

_Wellington belongs to my friend Jay. Yay._

#

“Have you heard of Grom Hellscream?” Atas asked, looking up and over his shoulder at Belidora as they rode along. The Alliance soldiers had decided to let the two of them ride on the same horse as long as he did not try to untie her. Anything to keep from dealing with a squirming, protesting orcling the entire day.

The blood elf had tiredly acquiesced and convinced the orcling not to. Not like they would make it far anyway. Still, since they had started riding at daybreak, Atas had decided to “lift her morale” by telling her every story of every Horde hero she already knew about.

“Yes,” she said quietly, deciding she did not really want to hear about another Hellscream. She had seen the other Grom on the other Draenor and did not care for him. “He freed the orcs from the blood curse.”

“Oh,” Atas said, frowning, evidently disappointed that he did not get to share the story. They rode in silence for a whole thirty seconds before he blurted out again, “Have you heard of Broxigar?”

Of course she had, but she smiled weakly at him. “No. Tell me that one.”

“He was the High Overlord’s big brother. One day, during the um, Third War, he disappeared. He went back in time, a long time ago,” Atas paused, looking back up at her. “Did you fight the demons in the Third War, Miss Belidora?”

She winced, almost imperceptibly, but quickly recovered. “No. We were . . . dealing with something in Quel’thalas then,” she said quietly, then quickly added, “Besides, I was kind of young. I wasn’t a fighter then.”

“Oh. Yeah, I wasn’t born then,” Atas explained sincerely. “Um, Broxigar went way back in time, and he got this magical axe. I think an elf gave it to him. Then, they were fighting demons then too. Demons must live a long time. Anyway, one day, he was riding on a dragon or something, but there was this portal, like the one in the sky.” The boy pointed upward to where Argus hung there. Even though the threat was slowly fading as the Armies of the Light made headway, it was a foreboding sight.

“He was so brave, he jumped off the dragon and into the portal. He fought so, so many demons. Like a hundred, maybe,” he said excitedly. “Then this big, big demon came, the biggest of them all. He was their leader.”

“Sargares.”

“Yeah. Sargares. But Broxigar wasn’t afraid of him at all. In fact, he ran up like this, rawr!” Atas yelled, raising his stick in the air and almost poking his friend’s face with it. “He hit Sargares with his magic axe and that helped the elves close the portal. I want to be that brave and amazing.” He looked up at Belidora again. “Miss Belidora?”

“Yeah, Atas?”

“Do you think that story is true? It happened a long time ago. What if they made it up?”

“They didn’t,” Llenrus said, glancing back at the two of them.

Atas scowled at him. “How do you know?”

“Because I met him when I was a young man,” he said, smiling down at the boy. “Demons are not the only ones who have long lives.” He looked forward again. “We have a statue of him where I’m from. He saved our lives.”

The orcling looked up at Belidora. “Is that true?” he whispered.

“I . . . I don’t know. I’ve never been there.”

“Can I go see it?” Atas asked Llenrus, whining.

“Maybe someday.”

“Stop!” Belidora blurted out.

They stopped the horses and Llenrus glanced back at her. “What is it?”

“We’re riding toward an Amani settlement. You need to turn northwest,” she said.

The night elf stared at her for several long moments, then sighed, shaking his head. “Nice try, girl. You’re trying to run us into resistance, aren’t you?”

“No. You’re going to run into their camp.”

“We rode this way coming up. There is no camp. Come on, now. We need to get moving.”

Belidora waited for him to turn around, then sighed silently. It was worth a try. Once they got to Aerie Peak, it would be too late.

Then again, due to her little lie that she managed to sneak in yesterday, the Alliance had three fewer days than they thought they did.

#

Phogrim rubbed his face and leaned against the table in the Vindicaar. It was the middle of the night, or what counted as night on the ship, and the frantic pace of activity was about half what it was in the daytime. That meant that there were few people who paid him any mind as he sat and ruminated.

His friend’s leave had expired nearly twelve hours ago. The higher ups had not noticed she had not returned yet, but they were bound to in the morning, and being AWOL would lead to fairly harsh sanctions. Her getting in trouble was not what worried him, though. He had already gone over with Jof every single reason he could think of that she may not be back.

If she missed the zeppelin, well, it ran every few hours from Undercity. She should have made the next trip.

If she had gotten a bit too drunk, as she was wont to do, she would have still sobered up enough in half a day.

He had even tried to chalk it up to laziness on her part, but he knew that was not true. He loved her like she was his own blood, but he had to admit that Belidora Bloodfeather had many negative qualities. She was a whiner, often overly emotional, antagonistic toward their troll comrade, and a bit of a drunk.

One thing he could not accuse her of, however, was shirking her duties as a soldier of the Horde. In that aspect she was incredibly conscientious, almost to a fault.

Phogrim sighed and pushed the chair back with a screech, getting up and walking back to their sleeping quarters. He entered the automatic door and walked over, shaking Jof awake gently on the bunk bed he shared with him.

The troll jumped slightly at being disturbed in his sleep, but he slowly rubbed his eyes and blinked at Phogrim. “’Ey. She back yet?” he whispered.

“No.”

The troll frowned slightly, sitting up in bed and letting his legs dangle off the side. “Dat not good. She get in trouble. Be scrubbin’ da whole ship if da commanders find out.”

“That’s true, but that’s not what I’m worried about,” Phogrim muttered, glancing back at her empty bunk. It was the top one, while a Tauren shared the bottom one. He had been with them for a while now on a favor from a friend of the blood elf’s and had already done a great deal to help them through their previous . . . issue in Stormheim. Phogrim hated to ask him for more help than he had already given, but…

“Hey. Wellington. Wake up,” Phogrim whispered.

When the Tauren did not stir, the shaman sighed and walked over, shaking his shoulder.

The priest grunted slightly and opened his eyes, shielding them. “What is it?” he muttered, a bit gruffly. He was evidently not a man who enjoyed being awakened in the middle of the night, but then, few people do enjoy such things.

“Our friend isn’t back. We need to go look for her.”

Wellington sat up and flared his nostrils slightly. “I thought she went back to Silvermoon. I’m sure she’s fine. She’s just late getting back.”

“That’s the thing. She’s never late getting back.”

“After knowing you three, I find that hard to believe.”

The shaman sighed and frowned. “Look, I’m really worried. Something is off about this whole thing. I mean, it’s not like there aren’t mages who can get her somewhere quickly. There’s no reason for her to be late if everything is fine.”

“You’re not going to let me go back to sleep, are you?”

“No,” Jof said from behind him.

The massive Tauren got up and stretched, yawning. “Okay. Let’s go find our little friend.”

It took them only minutes to get dressed and downstairs to the portal to Dalaran. Phogrim felt slightly better knowing that they were at least going to look, but something ate at the back of his mind as he passed through the portal. He shivered slightly as they hit the cold air of Dalaran and glanced at the other two. “We can take the portal over in Windrunner Sanctuary,” he muttered and they nodded.

At least it should be warm in Quel’thalas.

“Mon, Beli gonna get in trouble if we don’t hurry,” Jof said, walking quickly to the point that the other two had to almost jog to catch up. “How we even find her? Silvahmoon pretty big.”

“I thought you said you went to her apartment,” Phogrim muttered.

“I did, but she not always stay there.”

“We’ll figure it out. Let’s get there and then worry about it,” Wellington said, a bit impatiently. He stopped in front of the portal. “After you two.”

The gnawing at the back of Phogrim’s mind got more insistent and he paused, but gritted his teeth and walked through the portal. He closed his eyes, as he always did to combat the sudden nausea of teleportation, and vaguely heard the second two fizzles of arcane near him before he opened his eyes.

“I’ve always hated that feeling,” he grunted to Jof, then stopped. The troll was standing stock still and staring over the orc’s head with wide yellow eyes.

“Oh. Oh, Earthmother, no,” he heard Wellington whisper in taur’he. It was some of the few words Phogrim knew in the language.

Phogrim swallowed and turned around. Mere meters away was what was once the Shepherd’s Gate, but now was nothing but a violet glowing crater, along with the rest of the city. It hummed and pulsed with the same energy as the portal they had just passed through.

“What…?” Phogrim said shakily.

“Mana bomb,” Jof said quietly. “It be a mana bomb.”

The orc looked over at him for a moment, then stared at the city. His friend . . . she had survived the Scourge, Garrosh’s tyranny, the Iron Horde, and the Broken Isles, only to be butchered while going to play with some children in her own homeland. It took him several moments to realize he was holding his breath, but he finally gasped and forced himself to focus on it. All of them, all the sin’dorei, had survived so many things, only for this . . . It was not fair.

He had only a few moments for the rage to build up before he heard a voice, a male voice, speaking shakily in Common behind him.

“Don’t move.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The update speed will probably go down a bit because I'm working on something else for NaNoWriMo.
> 
> So, yeah. I'll still update it, though.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, got it done before I need to start working on NaNoWriMo. Don't worry, I'll still update this, albeit slowly.
> 
> Good luck to all my fellow NaNo-ers.

_**Author’s Note: World of Warcraft is copyright Blizzard Entertainment. Used without permission or profit.** _

#

The three Horde soldiers spun around at the voice and were faced with a shaking Farstrider, his arrow nocked and ready to fire.

“Hey! Hey, relax!” Phogrim managed to sputter back in Common.

The young blood elf slowly lowered his bow and stared at them. “Did the Warchief send you? Did word finally reach Undercity?” he said hopefully. He sounded like his mouth was incredibly dry, as his voice came out raspy.

Phogrim sighed and felt his voice catch, but managed to respond. “No. We were looking for a friend of ours. She was on leave and came back home for a few days.”

The young Farstrider’s face fell and he approached. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“We are too,” Phogrim whispered. “You must have lost so many friends and family here today.”

The Farstrider hesitated for a moment, then shook hie head. “Not . . . not really. Most of my family was killed by the Scourge,” he said shortly. “My . . . my name is Loreon Coldwhisper, by the way.”

“What happened here?” Wellington finally asked.

“I’m not entirely sure,” he said, looking back and staring at the ruins of the city. “I was out on patrol, near Zul’aman, when I saw a flash of light and felt a huge amount of arcane energy here. I ran back as fast as I could, but . . . it was all gone.”

“I tell ju, it be a mana bomb,” Jof snapped at the Tauren angrily. “I know dem. I was dere at Theramore.”

“Do you think the Alliance could have done this?” Phogrim asked, staring at the city. It seemed to have an odd waviness to it, like perhaps if he walked into it, it would all turn out to be a horrific nightmare.

“Of course!” the troll snapped. “Who else woulda wanted to do dis? Who else would use a bomb after we did?”

“I’m sorry about your friend,” the Farstrider said again, stopping his wide eyed vigil and finally looking back at them. “I am not a trained mage, but from what I know about the arcane, it should have at least been a quick death. What was her name?”

“Belidora Bloodfeather.”

The young man forced a weak smile. “I’m afraid I did not know her,” he said, looking back at the city.

Jof spoke, his voice pained this time. “She always wanted ta be a Fahstridah,” he said softly.

The young soldier winced, but looked back at them. “What did she look like?” he asked.

“What does it matter now?” Wellington growled, sitting down on a rock and rubbing his muzzle, blowing some air out of his nostrils.

Phogrim watched him numbly with sad brown eyes, then finally spoke, “She was short, had short black hair, and wore the armor of a huntress. She had pierced ears and..”

“Was she missing an eye?” Coldwhisper asked.

“Yes,” Phogrim said, startled. He and the other two spun to stare at the blood elf. “Her right eye.”

“I don’t know if it was her. She went by too fast, but there was this girl, riding a white halkstrider, running away from the city after the explosion. I tried to stop her, but she didn’t hear me. She looked like she had an eyepatch on,” he said.

It was not much, but it was a glimmer of hope where there was not one before. Phogrim rushed over and hugged the elf, lifting him off of his feet until the man slapped his side to get him to let go. He set him down. “Which way did she go?”

“Due south. I imagine that whoever it was was riding for Undercity to find help, but it has been a few days. I was hoping you were the first part of the help,” Coldwhisper said. “I’m sorry, but I need to ask you to take up where the girl left off. You have to get to Undercity to get help.”

Phogrim looked back at the other two, grim faced. He knew that the Farstrider was right, but he felt a twinge of regret that he could not immediately start searching for their friend. Still . . . perhaps he could do both at once?

“We’ll be on our way, then.”

“Light be with you,” the man replied, running the opposite direction again, doubtless on another fruitless quest to find survivors.

#

They half walked, half ran through Eversong Woods and then the Ghostlands for hours, only slowing when they got tired. They should have asked for mounts, but it was doubtful that there were any. If there were, Coldwhisper would have used them for himself.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, they reached the Plaguelands as their pace slowed to a crawl. They had stayed mostly silent through the journey, each lost in their own thoughts. Jof looked down at the ground as he walked. His longer legs made the journey only slightly less difficult. He sighed and looked around, then stopped as a glint caught his eye. He walked over to it quickly and crouched down.

“What is it?” Wellington rumbled behind him.

He scooped the item up in his three fingers and stared at it, a smile forming around his tusks slowly. “It’s Beli’s,” he said excitedly, holding it behind him for the others to look at.

It was a necklace, simple but beautiful, with sapphires crafted by the draenei on the Vindicaar. The sin’dorei had talked incessantly about how much she wanted one of their enchanted jewels and had spent half a month’s wages to finally buy a necklace. She was so proud of it that some of Jof’s excitement quickly turned to concern.

She was so proud of it that she would not have carelessly dropped it.

“But where is she?” Phogrim asked, giving voice to his concern. He took the necklace and stared at it, then looked around. There, in the distance, was a dark colored wooden bow, slightly cracked and lying against a bush.

“She wouldn’t have abandoned her weapon. Something happened,” Phogrim said worriedly.

“Maybe someone attacked her,” Wellington muttered.

Jof frowned and looked around, starting to frantically search. The other two did as well, and the troll gritted his teeth. He did not know the first thing about tracking someone. Really, the only person among his friends who did know how to track was the one they were searching for.

“What if the Amani took her? Or the Scourge?” Phogrim said worriedly, looking at the other two.

Wellington looked back and forth between the two of them. “I don’t think so. I don’t smell blood, or at least not enough for the Scourge.”

“And da Amani not leave her weapon behind. Dey be valuable,” Jof said, then froze. Footprints. They were definitely not trolls, but there were more than one pair as well. He recognized the ones that likely belonged to Belidora, as well as a tiny pair of bare ones. A child, perhaps. Then, to his dread, he noticed two other pairs, these larger, but still wearing boots. He waved the other two over.

“Humans,” Wellington snorted. “Men, more than likely. They’d be the right size.”

“The monsters who just destroyed Silvermoon have our friend,” Phogrim growled. “Come on. We need to get her back.”

“Wait, wait,” Wellington snapped. “They just murdered thousands and thousands of people. Why would they decide to take a single prisoner?”

“The cowards probably think they need a shield,” Phogrim spat.

“Do you really think a single prisoner would stay the Warchief’s hand?” Wellington replied calmly.

“Maybe it be a different group?” Jof said quietly. “Maybe dey haven’t hurt her. She be walkin’ under her own power, at least.”

“Yeah. Probably with a sword to her throat,” Phogrim said quietly.

#

Belidora glanced up slowly at the huge statue of the eagle before her as they rode into Aerie Peak. It had been damaged and charged by the Burning Legion’s invasion, but it was still standing, as was at least part of the city. It seemed that the citizens had begun to come back as well. She sighed. Her mother used to tell her stories about the Wildhammer Dwarves and how they saved the forests of Quel’thalas from the old Horde during the Second War, when she was just a child.

Times had changed.

The small group came to a halt and the Alliance soldiers slid off of their mounts. Hrolf walked over and untied her from the saddle, but kept her hands bound, then pulled her over to the side of the path, pushing her down on the dirt. She frowned and watched as they walked over and spoke to one of the gryphon riders.

“What are those?” Atas whispered, sitting down next to her.

“Gryphons. They’re kind of like wyverns,” she said tiredly.

“Are we gonna ride one?” he asked.

“I guess we have to.”

He frowned and looked back at the mounts again. “Where are we going? I want to go back to Orgrimmar.”

Belidora sighed. There was not much use in lying to him, she supposed. “We’re going to Stormwind. It’s . . . Like Orgrimmar, but it’s the capital of the Alliance. Where the humans live. We have to talk to their High King.”

“Is he like the Warchief?” Atas asked.

She opened her mouth to answer when she heard a quiet voice hiss at her. “Beli! Beli, ovah heah!”

She looked to her left and vaguely, several yards away, saw a familiar mohawk peaking above the bushes. Maybe her whining to get lunch before they left their last stop had helped stall them after all? She stared at it for a few seconds longer than she probably should have, then heard the sound of approaching footsteps and quickly turned around.

“Time to go, girl,” Ca’lyn said, bending down and grabbing onto her uninjured arm.

Belidora began to panic. If Jof rushed out and tried to help her, he would quickly be overwhelmed, and she was not strong enough to get away herself. Still, maybe she could save someone else.

“Atas! Run!” she snapped at the orcling, and thankfully, he did. Luckily it was in the direction of the troll.

Ca’lyn reached to try to catch him, but she missed. “Really? Do we have to do this?” she muttered at the blood elf and forced her to her feet.

“I’ll go get him,” Hrolf muttered, jogging after the boy.

The sin’dorei tried to drag her feet, but Ca’lyn simply grabbed her other arm as well. Pain shot through her momentarily and her strength gave out, giving the night elf a chance to pull her forward. The larger woman was strong, or perhaps Belidora was just weak from her injuries, because she had little trouble forcing her over to where the gryphon was, holding a cage in its claws. She pushed her inside and slammed the door.

“I don’t want to ride down here! Can’t I ride on the gryphon?” Belidora said frantically, trying to open the door with her bound hands.

“Not without you trying to throw us off,” Llenrus said, climbing onto it.

The blood elf managed to get the door cracked open, just an inch, until Ca’lyn got tired of her resistance and reached in, pushing her back. Her injured back hit the bars on the opposite side and she yelped, collapsing on the floor.

“You don’t have to be so rough with her, you know. She’s just scared,” Yrala said from the second mount.  
  
Ca’lyn shook her head. “I just want to get this over with.”

#

Jof sword in Zandali when the night elf grabbed his friend. He and the others had split up to scour Aerie Peak, the only Alliance base they knew about in the area. He did not expect to actually find her here. He was relieved to see her alive, but horrified to see the condition she was in. There were too many Alliance forces around, and even if he could overpower them, if they took his friend hostage, there would be little he could do.

Suddenly, the little orc with her sprinted toward him and he had to dive to snatch him up before he ran straight off the cliff behind him. “’Ey, ‘ey. Calm down,” he whispered. “I got ju. I’m a Darkspear. I protect you, little one.”

The child looked at him and nodded, then tried to pull away and run back towards the Alliance. “We have to save Miss Belidora!” he whispered frantically. “Come on!”

“I know but…” he started, then stopped. A human entered the clearing and, when he saw the troll, drew his sword. In return, Jof dropped the boy and formed some lightning between his hands was about to fire when the man lowered his sword slightly. He saw recognition flash over the man’s face, although Jof was certain he had never seen him before.

“Did you find him?” a voice yelled in Common from behind the man.

The man stared at them, but did not approach. Jof was going through a list of ideas as to what to do that would kill him without attracting attention when finally he said, “No. He got away.”

“Aye, we’ll find th’ lad. You all jes go on on yer flight,” another voice said, this one obviously one of the dwarves.

The man stared at them for another moment before running back into the city. Jof thought too late that he should have tried to capture him, to try to give him some sort of leverage so they might let Belidora go, and started foolishly to follow. He was stopped immediately by the orc that he barely noticed was gripping onto his calf, tripping him and sending him sprawling onto the dirt.

“Jof!” a voice whispered loudly from behind him. He turned to see Wellington stomping up, being none too quiet. “Who is this? What happened?”

The troll wordlessly pointed to where the gryphon was just then taking off.

“Knock it out of the sky!” the priest snapped. “Wind! Use the wind!”

Jof got up and tried to focus, but the elements did not obey. He knew vaguely, in the back of his mind, that the ones here were helpers of the dwarves, but he kept concentrating until knocking the mount down would cause serious injury to the young blood elf.

By that time, Phogrim had caught up and they slowly retreated from the city, as painful as it was.

“I be so close,” the troll said, collapsing in the dirt. “So many t’ings I coulda done. Why didn’t I?”

The other two looked at him, but did not say anything. Instead, Phogrim looked down at the orc child, who had taken to grasping onto Wellington’s robes. “Hi. What’s your name?”

“Atas,” the boy replied. “Is Miss Belidora going to be okay?”

“I . . . I hope so,” the orc said, gritting his teeth. “Do you know where they were going?”

“She said we were going to a place called Stormwind. She said it was like Orgrimmar, but for the humans.”

Wellington blew air out of his nose and shook his ears. “Well . . . we can’t chase her there,” he said grimly. “She’s on her own, poor girl. I hope what we’ve heard of the boy king is true.”

Phogrim nodded and looked at Jof, who refused to meet any of their gazes. “Now what do we do?”

“What we were supposed to be doing all along,” the tauren muttered. “We’re going to see the Banshee Queen.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to bundle this into NaNo and do multiple projects. So yay, no long waits.
> 
> I'm sure all two of you appreciate that. ;) And please, read and review. I look forward to reviews every time I post. <3

_**Author’s Note: World of Warcraft is copyright Blizzard Entertainment. Used without permission or profit.** _

#

Belidora Bloodfeather had always hated flying on mounts.

Flying under them was ten times worse.

As such, she had kept her one good eye closed the entire time. It must have taken hours to reach the destination, because once she felt the sudden blast of hot air from Ironforge and dared to open her eye, she felt like she was about frozen solid. It was probably because she was so tense, though - curled up in a ball and gripping one of the bars of her cage with both her bound hands.

The gryphon swooped down and hovered a couple of feet off of the ground, dropping her cage before landing. She winced slightly at the impact but was careful not to make a sound. Instead, she looked around. They were still outside of Ironforge itself, of course, but at least it was warmer there. Still, there were several dwarves and gnomes milling about, some of which stopped to look into her cage.

She wished she had her bow. Really, she wished that she had the strength and uninjured arm to use it.

The door to her cage creaked open and she looked back hesitantly. It was that draenei. Belidora forced herself to release the bar of the cage and turn back around.

“Hello, little elf,” Yrala said gently. “It’s time to get out. Do you think you can stand?”

The blood elf nodded silently, pulling herself up by holding onto the bars of the cage. Her legs felt like they were on fire from sitting in a cramped position, as well as her previous burns, but she gritted her teeth and limped out. She stood in front of the draenei and allowed her to take her arm to escort her along. Still, the Alliance citizens kept staring. It was probably quite rare for a Horde prisoner to show up in Ironforge.

Especially when they were not supposed to be at war with one another.

“Where are we going?” Belidora asked the draenei. Really, the woman was the only one she did not despise at this point, so it might as well be her. “Why didn’t we land in Stormwind?”

“The gryphon can’t make it that far, but we are going to Stormwind, child,” she replied in a nonchalant, matter of fact tone. “Are you scared?”

“No,” Belidora said without hesitation.

“Good. You should not be. The young king is a gentle man, far more so than his father. I’m sure he only would wish to talk to you. He is not one to use violence unless necessary.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Belidora said quietly. The draenei looked at her questioningly, but the blood elf did not explain, simply looking down at the ground. She did glance over surreptitiously at the two who did know her meaning and saw them exchange a glance. They, too, did not say anything.

They made their way inside and through the city, the young blood elf prisoner attracting attention from several dwarves and gnomes. None of them approached or said anything to her, however. That was, before they were stopped by one of the guards. “’Ey. Who is this lass? Ya kint be bringin’ Horde soldiers in ‘ere without permission.”

“She’s a prisoner. One that we need to get to the High King as soon as possible. She’s not going to harm anyone. She’s quite badly injured,” Llenrus explained patiently.

“What would His Majesty wan’ with a grunt like her?” the dwarf grunted.

“It’s a long story,” Llenrus said, his voice strained. “Look, we just need to make it to the station and we will be on our way.”

The dwarf narrowed his eyes slightly and grunted. “I’ll be right back. Ye can wait here for a moment,” he said. He made it clear that it was an order, not a request.

Belidora ignored the Alliance soldiers’ grumbling and took a moment to look around slowly, trying to ignore the pain in her leg. All around there were tunnels through the floor, allowing her to see molten lead streaming underneath.

“I wouldn’t try to run like before, girl,” Ca’lyn said. “You don’t want to take a tumble here.”

Belidora bit her lip and frowned until the dwarf guard returned, holding a black cloak in his hand. “’Ere,” he said, handing it to Llenrus. The night elf looked at it and nodded.

“Thank you, sir. We will be on our way,” the night elf said to the dwarf, and then to the others, “Okay, let’s move on. We’re almost there.”

Belidora swallowed and kept her head slightly down as they walked through the city, although she did occasionally glance up to see the city. The soldiers did nothing to stop her.

She was not sure if that should worry her or not.

They walked past what she assumed were the warriors and hunters of the dwarves, practicing with shields and axes, bows and guns. There were even some little gnomes running about with them, and Belidora briefly thought about Kathkin before pushing the thought from her mind. She was like all the rest of them.

“Okay, here it is,” Llenrus muttered, turning down another corridor. This time the young elf stopped dead in her tracks. The entire tunnel was moving, spinning like gears all along the wall.

Yrala stopped for a moment so as not to pull her too hard, then sighed. “It’s okay. Just don’t touch them,” she explained simply. When Belidora still did not budge, she tugged hard enough to get her to move again and shook her head.

They came to another tunnel, this one running parallel, and stopped. “At least it’s empty,” Llenrus muttered. He and Hrolf were looking back and forth down the track, standing near the edge of the platform.

Suddenly, some bizarre contraption with three small compartments came whizzing in, stopping smoothly in front of where the two men were standing. Llenrus stepped on and motioned for the others to follow. They did so, Yrala half dragging the blood elf. Once they were onboard, Yrala gently but firmly pushed the girl to the ground and into a sitting position. Within a few seconds, the odd contraption started moving once again.

“What . . . What is this?” Belidora finally asked, looking around. Her mangy hair was blowing around and she was temporarily grateful that it was cut short. It would be getting in her way if she had kept it long.

“It’s the Deeprun Tram,” Ca’lyn said matter of factly. “Have you never heard of it?”

“I . . . I thought it was a myth,” she said dumbly, staring as the tunnel sped by at an amazing amount of speed.

“A myth? We’ve had it since the Second War,” Hrolf said gruffly, looking back down at her. “Why would you think it was a myth?”

“Well . . That’s what the Bilgewater Cartel said,” Belidora said, suddenly feeling a bit self conscious. Well, at least it was better than everything else she was feeling.

To her surprise, the Gilnean did not laugh at her. Instead he shook his head and took the cloth that the guard had given Llenrus, walking over and kneeling down in front of her. “Here. You’re going to wear this,” he said, unraveling it. It was a black cloak with a hood, and there were holes cut in it for her long ears. “You will meet with far less abuse in Stormwind if they think you’re a high elven bandit rather than a soldier of the Horde.”

She narrowed her eye at him. “Why? What would you care?” she asked.

“I have no real reason to make this harder on you than it already has been,” he said, pulling the cloak around her shoulders. She cringed at the touch of it on her back, even through her tunic. He frowned. “Sorry.”

Belidora sighed and stared off to the side. There was light up ahead, and soon they entered what seemed to be somewhere under the ocean, although that did not make much sense. She may not know a great deal about the geography of the Alliance held territory, but she did know that there was not a sea between Ironforge and Stormwind.

The Gilnean reached over and grabbed the hood of the cloak, fixing it over her ears, but not pulling it down over her face. Instead, he said, “Keep this pulled down when we stop so they can’t see your eye. If anyone happens to ask, we’re going to say that you’re a thief we caught and are delivering to the Stockade. The Lieutenant over there is going to try to get you to the High King instead, of course, if we can get an audience.”

Belidora gave the Gilnean nothing but an angry stare, then looked down at the floor of the tram car. It was a surprisingly smooth ride, although she was now cold again. She jumped slightly when the man put his hand under her chin, lifting it up firmly but gently, and she pulled away as much as she could.

“Keep your head up,” he whispered.

“For what?” she replied quietly, her tone sullen. “What do I have to look forward to anymore?”

The Gilnean sighed at her and glanced around, seemingly to see if anyone was paying attention to him. They were not. Ca’lyn and Llenrus were talking near the front of the car, their backs turned to them, and Yrala was looking out the side. He turned back to her. “Well, from what I’ve seen today, your friends care about you a great deal,” he said as quietly as he could while still being heard over the roar of the tram.

Belidora looked at him, shock forming on her face. She glanced around as well and whispered, “Are they…?”

“Fine,” he said quietly, standing up and nodding. “As far as I saw.”

She swallowed, her throat sore but being able to ignore it. “Th-thank you,” she whispered.

He gave her an odd look. It was not quite one that said “you’re welcome,” but it was not one that was exactly cold, either. It was hard to place, but it may have been remorse.

Still, he did not say anything, instead simply walking over to where Yrala sat, leaving the girl alone with her thoughts.

#

It took another half hour, but the tram finally slowed to a halt. Llenrus glanced back at the prisoner, who was looking around nervously at the new station. He sighed. It was probably a bit overwhelming for her, and she had grown quiet as they moved along. Plus, her slight shivering had turned into something quite a bit more violent. He frowned. It was not that cold in the tracks. There was a good possibility that she was developing an infection from her wounds that would not completely heal, no matter how much Ca’lyn tried.

He thought on it a moment and shook his head. Of course. He looked over at Yrala. “Do you happen to have a spare mana potion?” he asked politely.

The draenei grinned at him. She was always happy when a potion was asked for. She reached into a pouch on her belt and handed him a tiny vial filled with glowing blue liquid.

“Thanks. I’ll pay you back,” he said, walking over to where the girl was seated. She must have been lost in her thoughts, because she startled when he knelt down beside her. He uncorked the bottle and held it out. “Do you want this?” he asked gently. The girl’s glowing green eye widened and she grabbed at it, almost knocking it out of his hand and onto the floor. He caught her wrists, though, and gently placed it in her hand once she stopped struggling with him.

The young blood elf drank it down frantically and her focus seemed to return somewhat. She looked at him sheepishly, as if she just realized what she had done, then looked down at the ground, shame etched on her face.

Llenrus would have normally been slightly disgusted by the display, but after the last few days . . . he sighed and reached down, helping her up. “It’s okay,” was all he said.

The two women had already departed, but Hrolf was watching them curiously. “What’s the matter with her?” he asked.

“It’s withdrawal. The Sunwell must have been destroyed as well,” he said quietly. This, of course, meant that any blood elves that survived due to being away from Silvermoon had doubtlessly found out that something was wrong.

It did not matter. She had not shown any symptoms until the last few hours, and they were already in Stormwind. All he had to do was get her across the city to the Keep and the Alliance would have what it needed to know.

Hrolf reached over and pulled her hood down slightly as they walked through the city. It was raining slightly. The citizens gave them a fairly wide berth, at least, although plenty still stared or snickered at the poor unfortunate “bandit.”

“We’re not headed toward the Keep, sir,” Hrolf muttered.

“It would probably be best if we report in to the Captain. He’s supposed to be on leave for the next few weeks. He is more likely to be able to explain to the guards why we need to see the King. And besides, do you want this getting back to him without us telling him first?”

Hrolf sighed. “No, probably not. He’s not going to be happy, though,” he said as they rounded the corner. Their female companions had somehow ended up falling behind them, and the sin’dorei had been quiet, not even bothering to look around this new city.

“Well, no,” Llenrus said. “It’s not anything to be happy about. This will doubtlessly lead to war, Driscoll. Likely the worst one we’ve seen in a generation.”

“That’s true, but that’s not what I’m talking about. This isn’t the artifact we were supposed to find, sir,” he said, motioning with his head to the girl.

Llenrus sighed. “You’re right. I mean, we have to tell him, but . . .” He paused for a moment, thinking. He turned back to Yrala and Ca’lyn. “I need you ladies to babysit for a moment. We need to do this with some kind of . . .” He frowned, not knowing what word. “Well, we need to do this with the right kind of something. Here. Don’t lose her.”

He waited until Ca’lyn took a hold of the girl’s arm before turning back around, walking toward the small residential district that the Captain lived in. It was only about a half block away, and he could see the three women from the man’s front door. He sighed and glanced back at the Gilnean. “Well, here it goes.”

He knocked.

There was nothing at first, and then a quiet sound of walking. After a few moments more, the door opened and there stood Captain Mikal Blackwater, looking every bit like they had just awakened him from a nap. He was dressed in a tunic and pair of pants that were wrinkled and, had it been under any other circumstance, the two subordinates probably would have laughed at his bleary eyed appearance. This time, however, they simply stared at him.

“Ah, you’re back early!” the man said, smiling tiredly. “Did you find it? The artifact?”

Llenrus shook his head. “Um, no, sir. I’m afraid we have some terrible news to discuss. Is your family home?”

The officer’s face fell and he looked around. “No. They went to the market. What happened? Where are your comrades I sent with you?” he said, fear forming on his face.

“They’re fine. Everyone in our party is fine,” the night elf said reassuringly. “They’re just down the street.”

“Then what? Is the Horde preparing something?”

“Sir, may we come in?” Hrolf said quickly. “This is not something that should be discussed in public.”

The man looked back and forth between the two of them, his gray eyes filled with worry, but nodded. “Calia and Lily should not be home for another few hours,” he said, swallowing and moving back.

Llenrus stepped back and waved the women forward. They quickly approached, or as quickly as they could while pulling along a limping, passively resisting prisoner. At least the girl was not causing a scene.

The Captain had moved inside the house to grab a pot of tea from the stove, probably to warm up the drenched soldiers. When the women entered and Yrala pushed the door shut behind them, he turned and froze, staring at the hooded figure in between them.

“Who is this?” he asked, slamming the teapot down on the stove. The worry that had been on his face a moment before was quickly darkening to something much more terrifying.

The Lieutenant sighed and, not knowing what else to say, he muttered, “I believe you two have met.”

Mikal stormed across his den and reached up, ripping the hood back from the elf’s face and head. She cringed away from him, as if expecting to be struck, but said nothing, simply staring at the ground. The human stared at her for a moment, then looked at the two women holding her. “Ladies, please make Miss Bloodfeather comfortable,” he said evenly, then turned to the Hrolf and Llenrus. “You. In here. Now.”

Llenrus and Hrolf exchanged a glance, but followed the commander into the next room, which looked to be his bedroom from the way it was furnished. As soon as they closed the door the man wheeled around on them.

“What on Azeroth were you _thinking_?” he snapped.

“Sir, if you’ll let us explain,” Llenrus started, but the commander quickly cut him off.

“There is nothing to explain that would justify this,” he hissed at them.

“We didn’t have a choice,” Hrolf protested. “We couldn’t…”

“You didn’t have a choice? Here’s an idea. Next time you encounter a Horde citizen when we are in a truce with them, and they’re in their own Light forsaken territory? Leave them there. Do you not realize what you’ve done? This is a crime. It’s called kidnapping, and don’t try to tell me it’s not. She does not look to be a willing participant in any of this. Can you imagine what is going to happen when her leaders find out about this?”

“That seems like a pretty remote possibility,” Hrolf said, half under his breath.

Mikal narrowed his eyes and glared at the two of them, but mostly at the Gilnean. “You’re right, because do you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to take both of your pay for the entire month and give it to her, along with whatever else she’d like from you. Then I’m going to find a mage willing to give her a portal, safe and sound, to Dalaran. That way perhaps she won’t go crying to Ranger General Brightwing that there are Alliance soldiers kidnapping sin’dorei for no apparent fel damned reason.”

“That wasn’t the point I was trying to…” Hrolf started, until Llenrus elbowed him in the side, cutting him off. When the Gilnean looked over questioningly, the night elf shook his head.

Llenrus turned to the Captain and, ignoring the anger etched on his face, said quietly, “Ranger General Brightwing is dead, along with the rest of their leaders, I’m sure,” he said quietly. He watched as the anger in the man’s face changed to a mixture of horror and bewilderment. “You might want to have a seat, sir. This will take some time to explain.”

Mikal sat down heavily on the bed, and the two men explained everything they knew, as little as it was. About how they had run into the young huntress and orcling and how leaving them to fend for themselves would be paramount to murder. How they had discovered the ruins of the elven homeland. About halfway through, Mikal buried his face in his hands, saying nothing.

“So that’s why she’s here, sir,” Llenrus said quietly. “We felt that it would be best if King Wrynn find out about this, and it would be best for him to hear it from an eyewitness, as uncooperative as she might be.”

“I guess . . . I guess I can’t really blame her for being such,” Mikal muttered, finally looking up. He was pale and looked quite overwhelmed. He frowned. “The King is on a diplomatic mission until tomorrow to Darnassus, but I’m sure word can be sent to him that he needs to return. Still…”

“Still what?”

“You said she was badly burned, and that the druidic healing did not completely work?” he asked. When they nodded silently he sighed. “Maybe she would be more willing to speak if she could face the High King with some sort of dignity, not dressed in ruined clothing and in agony. The poor girl has been through a lot, no use humiliating her if we can avoid it. A few hours will give us time to get her cleaned up and healed.”

“Ca’lyn has tried everything she can think of, and Yrala has run out of reageants for any more of her potions,” Hrolf muttered.

“I have someone else in mind. Probably the only human whose throat the poor girl may not slit if she had the chance,” Mikal replied.


	8. Chapter 8

_**Author’s Note: World of Warcraft is copyright Blizzard Entertainment. Used without permission or profit.** _

#

Wellington winced as Atas twisted his tail once again.

He had told the child not to hold onto it and he had indeed let go, but that had lasted for only a few minutes before he grabbed onto it again. He had finally snapped at him, just once, to keep his hands in his pockets, but that had only made him start sniffling again.

“Do you think Miss Belidora can get away? Are they going to hurt her?” the child whined.

“I don’t know, Atas,” Wellington rumbled at him tiredly. It was a lie. The answer to the first question was undoubtedly “no.” He could only hope the second was the same, although he had little reason to believe a group of people who had just committed genocide would suddenly grow something akin to mercy.

The boy sniffled. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have run away. Warriors of the Horde don’t run away. She needed me to protect her. She said so.”

They had gone over this statement about a half dozen times, a lie the huntress had told the boy to get him to come with her, evidently. It no longer was helpful that he believed it so deeply. “You ran because she told you to,” Wellington said, only halfway patiently, glancing over his shoulder. At least the boy was no longer twisting his tail, only holding onto it. “She’s the one that was supposed to be protecting you, little one. Not the other way around. She knew what she was doing. You did the right thing.”

He frowned and looked down at the ground. “She was protecting me when the demon attacked us, but now she’s hurt.”

Wellington sighed. They had quickly ascertained that the two of them must have witnessed something of the destruction of Silvermoon, but while they were questioning the boy, they had realized that his recollection of events was scattered and confused. It was obviously pieced together through both what he saw and stories he had heard, as well as inaccurate descriptions of “demons” that were almost certainly not meant to be taken literally.

Still, he wished that the boy would be quiet. He glanced over at the troll, who had ducked his head lower when the orc had asked about their friend for the dozenth time. “Hey,” he muttered to Jof. When the younger soldier finally looked up with him with sad yellow eyes, Wellington continued. “There’s nothing you could have done. You tried.”

“I shoulda jus’ run out dere and grabbed her,” Jof muttered in reply.

The tauren sighed. It was probably true, but there was little he could do about it now, and the tauren could not have the others moping the entire way to Undercity. “What would you have done if they’d put a sword to her throat and demanded you surrender?” he asked. Jof opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, sighing. Wellington continued. “You were surrounded by the Wildhammer dwarves. You would have gotten you and probably her killed.”

Jof looked back down. “At least it woulda been quick. I seen what da Alliance can do when dey ‘ave time,” he muttered. Wellington started to say something to him, but Jof continued. “I shouldn’t ‘ave been so mean ta her da other day. I shouldn’t ‘ave said da t’ings I said.”

The tauren had no idea what he was speaking of, but Phogrim finally said something. “I’m sure she knows you didn’t mean any of it. I doubt she even remembered it after a few days.”

The troll sighed but did not reply.

They walked the next few minutes in silence when there was the sound of twigs snapping, then a low, sickeningly familiar crackling sound. The three adults froze and looked around, trying to determine where it was coming from when the child suddenly screamed and let go of Wellington’s tail.

The Seer wheeled around and scooped up the child with one hand, tearing him away from the decaying hand holding onto his vest. He held him to his chest and with the other hand, pulled his staff off of his back, slamming the end of it into the soil. Light enveloped the two of them and knocked the Scourge back with a hiss, giving Jof enough time and space to envelope it in lightning a second later until it crumpled in a charred heap.

The four of them waited there, the orcling shaking and burying his face in Wellington’s robes and the soldiers looking around nervously, until several minutes had passed. When they finally realized that the monster had been alone, they relaxed.

Jof looked over at Phogrim and stared at him. “Scourge?” he asked.

The orc nodded. “Good job. They can be hard to kill. You did it in one hit.”

Wellington set Atas down and checked him carefully, making sure he was not injured. When he seemed to be okay, he sighed and smiled. “Hey. You’re fine. Come on, let’s keep moving. Stay close to us.”

He started to stand back up, but the orcling refused to let go of his massive hand. The poor child was still shaking somewhat. Wellington sighed and scooped him up, setting him on his shoulder. “There. See, they can’t reach you up here,” he said gently, then winced. The boy had taken to grabbing onto his ear. He reached up and gently removed his hand. “Hold onto the horn, okay?”

Atas whispered down to him. “Th-thank you.”

The tauren sighed and glanced up at him. “Yeah. It’s no problem.”

#

Justin Crawford opened the door and raised his eyebrows. “Good afternoon, sir. What can I do for you?” he asked politely, although he was secretly hoping the answer was ‘nothing,’ since it was just his first day of leave.

“Are your parents home?” Mikal asked, glancing past him.

“No,” he said quietly, looking at the group behind the Captain. It was his Sergeant and Lieutenant, as well as two women he did not know. In between them was a slightly smaller hooded figure with long ears. A high elf, probably, although its hands were bound in front of it. He frowned. “They went to market with my sister to get something to bring back for dinner.”

“Good,” Mikal said, grabbing the hooded figure’s arm and pulling them forward. Her, more likely, judging by her size and shape as they got closer. “We need to come in. I need your help with something important.” The officer glanced back at the others. “You guys go get cleaned up and put on the finest armor you can scrounge up. We’ll meet back here around an hour before supper.”

When the others left, he pushed the prisoner in the door and closed it behind him. “I need you to heal Miss Bloodfeather here,” Mikal said simply, pulling the hood down from the girl’s head. Justin frowned. She refused to make eye contact and looked horrible.

Still, the paladin simply said, “Why is she here?”

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you while you work.”

Justin nodded and led them to his bedroom, motioning for the girl to lie down. She sat down on the edge of it instead, but it was good enough. Justin started gathering up some potions and bandages while Mikal closed the door and looked out of his window.

“May I untie her? It’ll be easier to treat her if I can move her arms.”

Mikal shrugged and looked back at them. “Elf,” he said. When she glanced up at him, he continued. “He’s going to untie you. If you cause any problems, we’ll leave you like this, understood?”

Justin sighed when she just nodded in return, looking back at the ground again. He reached over and took the straps off of her wrist. She had obviously been struggling against them, as her wrists were rubbed raw and bleeding in places, although they had not been that tight. He held her hands in his and, ignoring her trying to pull away, silently prayed and used the Light to close the small scrapes, then turned her hands in his. The backs of her wrists were badly burned, although they had obviously been healed at least somewhat. Still, there was a spider web of scars criss-crossing them.

“What happened?” he asked her, his brow creasing.

She did not respond.

Justin shook his head and reached up, unclasping the cloak from around her neck. There, he could see her own smaller cloak underneath, charred black. He sighed and patted the bed. “Lie down on your stomach. I need to check your back.”

When she wordlessly obeyed, he reached over and started to lift up her tattered cloak and shirt when she panicked, trying to pull away from him. He caught her hand quickly. “Hey, hey. You know I’m not like that. I’m not going to hurt you,” he said soothingly. He would have normally been slightly offended, but she seemed to be slightly confused and disoriented. The girl was likely starting to fall into shock.

Belidora stopped pulling away from him and he slightly lifted up her shirt, just enough to see what was going on. Her back was another tapestry of burn scars, more intense than on her arms. Whatever hit her had hit her from behind. He kept the shirt up just slightly as the Captain walked over and surveyed the injuries. The man shook his head and muttered something that Justin could not quite hear under his breath.

The paladin lay the shirt back down and gently touched the back of her head, saying another prayer, using more power with this one. Slowly he opened his eyes and saw her covered in the Light for several seconds before it faded. He lay his hand on her back gently and could feel her breathing get more relaxed as she either passed out or fell asleep.

“Is she all right?” Mikal asked quietly.

“Yes sir,” the paladin said, glancing over his shoulder. “Well, as good as she can be, given her injuries. The injured often pass out if the injuries are severe enough after healing has started. It’s their bodies way of dealing with it and trying to heal, I guess.” He frowned. “Sir? Can you tell me what happened?”

So the Captain did, the whole story, exactly as it was explained to him.

“It . . . It’s gone?” Justin whispered breathlessly, glancing back at the sleeping blood elf. “That’s horrible. It’s nothing short of genocide. Did . . . Did we do that?”

“It would seem that way, yes. I imagine she’s one of the few people who may have an idea of what is going on,” Mikal said quietly.

“So you wanted me to heal her so she can talk to the King?” he asked, glancing back at her. She was still mercifully asleep.

“I wanted you to heal her because the poor thing deserves to see the face of a friend after what she’s been through.”

“I’m not her…” Justin started, then stopped when he saw the Captain frown at him and roll his eyes.

“Crawford, I’ve been doing this for over twenty years. I would be a poor commander if I did not know some of my soldiers were sneaking into the prison to have late night chats with some Horde prisoners. The Lieutenant saw you sneaking in some snacks to them one night. Kaldorei are nocturnal, remember?” he said. When the boy’s face fell, the older soldier smiled sadly. “He wanted you and Kathkin punished, but I told him no. If I was angry about it, I would have put a stop to it.”

“You’re . . . You’re not angry?”

Mikal shrugged and looked out the window again. “They were quite incapable of hurting you since they could not reach through the bars, and you had no way to let them out. You were never in any danger,” he said, then sighed. “Besides, I thought perhaps you could learn something from talking to them. And not just you, but them as well. As much as we paint the Horde as monsters, I think they believe the same about us. Today, they probably have good reason to.” Mikal shook his head. “I was hoping that perhaps Azeroth would be different when Lily gets to be your age, but…”

He stopped when he heard the door slammed. Justin frowned and quickly walked to his bedroom door, peeking out. It was his little sister, Kallae. She smiled at him. “Hey, Mom and Dad want you to come to the inn. They decided we could go eat there tonight.”

He sighed. “I’m, um, working, Kallae. You guys can go have fun. Thank you, though,” he said, stepping out and closing the bedroom door behind him before she could look inside.

She frowned. “You’re supposed to be on leave.”

“Well, there was an emergency…”

“Then why are you still here? What are you doing?” she asked.

He bit his lip and looked at her for a few seconds before sighing. “Someone is hurt and I’m healing them.”

“I want to see!” she said. “You never show me how you can use the Light. I want to see it.”

“Well . . . You can’t,” he said. “It’s not safe. It’s a Horde prisoner. They’re dangerous. I can’t let you in there.”

He frowned when her eyes widened and a huge grin spread across her face. “Is it a cow?”

“What?”

“This is the greatest moment of my life. We have a cow in our house.”

“Tauren, Kallae. Tauren. And no, it’s a blood elf,” he whispered. When her face fell, he sighed. “Look, you can’t tell anyone. Just go back to the inn and tell Mom and Dad that I can’t come right now.”

“I want to help you, though,” she said. “Mom said I could go talk to the priests at the cathedral so I can start my studies soon. I want to see if I can do it.”

“I told you, Kallae. She might be dangerous,” he said, thinking. “Look, if you want to help, go brew up some of that tea that I like. It might make her feel better to drink something warm. Let it cool first so she can’t burn herself.” Or throw it on us, he thought.

When she ran off to do as she was told, he sighed and walked back in, frowning at his superior. “Sorry. It’s my sister,” he whispered.

After that, the two men waited in relative silence, only broken by the occasional pained whimper from the sleeping blood elf. Justin kept his hand on hers and would slowly call on the Light when she stirred, trying to keep the pain down as it stitched her burns.

He had just gotten up to mix some salve when the door opened and a small dog bounded in, leapt on the bed, and started licking the patient. This, of course, startled Belidora, and she scrambled backwards, hitting her injured back on the wall with a yelp. Justin quickly grabbed her wrist to get her to stay still. “It’s okay, it’s okay!” he said quickly, trying to get her to focus. “It’s just . . .”

“Puddles!” Kallae yelled behind him. “I told you to stay outside!”

“Kallae, you scared her!” Justin yelled. He turned his attention back to the elf, who was slowly catching her breath and staring at the short legged little corgi. She swallowed and pulled her wrist away, then lay back down and ran her hands through the dog’s fur shakily, staring at it silently. The young paladin sighed. Animals seemed to have a strange calming effect on her, no matter what was going on.

He turned around to where Kallae was talking to the Captain quietly, holding the tray with the tea cups and kettle. “Thank you,” he said quietly, taking it and setting it on a table out of the elf’s reach. “You should probably get back to the inn before Mom and Dad come looking for you.”

“Is that a blood elf? Can I talk to her?” Kallae asked.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, child,” the Captain said slowly. “She’s unlikely to want to talk. She’s hurt and scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Belidora said weakly from the bed, the first time she had spoken since she had gotten there. It was not at all convincing, with how her voice wavered and her hands shook. She did not even attempt to look at them, instead focusing on the dog.

Kallae walked a few feet closer until Justin put his hand out to keep her back. She stopped where he did and spoke, “Hello. What’s your name? My name’s Kallae. Kallae Crawford.”

When the elf did not respond, the girl continued. “That’s Puddles. He’s my dog. I’ve had him since he was a puppy. I think he likes you. He likes everyone,” she said. This time she got a dumb nod in response and the elf looked at her momentarily before looking back down at Puddles and continuing to pet him. Undeterred, she continued.

“Do you have any pets?”

Justin frowned when Belidora suddenly stopped petting Puddles and her face fell. Slowly, tears started to spill out of her one good eye and she buried her face in her arms, sobbing. He sighed and let go of Kallae, walking over and putting his hand on her head. _Snowhide_ , he thought. She had asked about Snowhide almost every single day during her captivity.

“I’m sorry,” Kallae was saying. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“It’s . . . It’s okay, Kallae. You didn’t know,” Justin said, frowning back at the Captain. The man sighed and rubbed his face, starting to look out of the window before a door opened at the front of the house.

“Kallae! Justin!” a male voice yelled. “Are you here? Come on, I’m starving.”

Justin quickly leapt to his feet. Kallae was one problem, but at least she was friendly.

His father would not be happy to see his new house guest.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Author's Note:  See previous chapters for copyright disclaimer.** _

#

“Who in the fel is _that_?”  Justin’s father blurted out, his face turning something terrible. He had sent Kallae out of the room, thankfully, and told her to go fetch their mother.  
  
  
Justin opened his mouth to say something, but blessedly the Captain spoke before.  “Um, Mr. Crawford,” he said in a calm voice.  “I can explain.”  
  
  
“What is it doing in my house with my daughter?”  
  
  
“She’s an important prisoner, and I needed a healer.  Your son is one of the best I have…”  
  
  
“You can’t quarter prisoners in a private citizen’s house!”  
  
  
Justin listened in silence to the two men’s argument - his father’s quite loud and the Captain’s still calm and soothing.  He sighed and glanced behind him when he heard Belidora get control of her breathing and slowly - and probably painfully - sit up.  His healing had evidently begun to take effect, at least, but she still clutched her right arm to her chest.  When he was healing her, he could feel that scar tissue had begun to form around the shoulder.  It would take a more skilled healer than he to fix it so she could have a full range of motion.  Maybe her shaman friend could do it, if she got to go home.  
  
  
Now, though, she simply stared at the two of them, a blank, tired stare on her face.  She reached over with her left arm and ran her fingers through Puddles’ fur again, but kept her eye on the two men.  
  
  
Finally (and unfortunately), his father noticed her staring at him.  He narrowed his eyes.  “What are you looking at?” he snapped.  When she did not immediately respond, he continued.  “What?  Are you not bright enough to understand Common?”  
  
  
Justin glanced back at her and noticed her narrow her eye, almost imperceptibly.  But, when she hoarsely spoke, it was a few words he could not understand.  Thallassian, if he were guessing.  He grinned slightly at her, but she did not return the expression.  Instead, she kept staring at his father.  
  
  
“Stupid little whelp can’t even understand our language,” his father muttered.  “What could she possibly be able to tell the king?”  
  
  
“I can understand you, you idiot,” she said weakly, this time in Common.  Her voice did not sound frightening in the slightest, but she did not stop staring at his father. “We were allies once.”  Her eye narrowed.  “A mistake.”  
  
  
“Agreed,” his father snapped back.  
  
  
Belidora, though, changed the subject.  “I’m staring because I’m wondering what kind of Forsaken you’ll make when we sack Stormwind,” she said darkly.  Justin blinked and stared back at her, surprised by the coldness and . . . hatred in her voice.  It almost surprised him more than her words.  The two older men also stopped their bickering and stared at her.    
  
  
She pressed on.  “You’ll have to forgive me,” she said, pausing, almost making it sound like an actual apology.  “I’ve never seen a old, fat Forsaken before.  I’m having a hard time picturing it.”  
  
  
The room was dead silent.  His father crossed the room in only a few steps, striking her across the face with a surprisingly vicious backhand.  Puddles quickly leapt onto the floor and scrambled under the bed, but Belidora did not make a sound, simply winced then glared back at him.  
  
  
The Captain closed the gap between them and grabbed the man’s arm.  “A word with you, sir, in private,” he said firmly.    
  
  
His father glared at her for a few moments before stepping back, starting to follow the Captain out.  When they got to the bedroom door, the Captain turned around and spoke, “Do not heal her,” he said angrily.  “She deserved that.”  
  
Justin watched as they left and sighed, turning back to the blood elf, who was staring at the bed, rubbing her cheek.  “You probably shouldn’t have done that,” he said quietly.  
  
“He deserved it.”

#

Kaitlyn Crawford opened up the door to her son’s room and glanced in.  Justin was sitting on a stool next to his bed. Seated on the bed was a filthy young blood elf girl.  She sighed and stepped inside.  
  
“Mom,” Justin said, standing up.  
  
“Your commander already explained everything,” she said quietly, then looked at the girl.  The young prisoner was glaring at her, but her breathing was labored and pained.  That, and the way she clutched her ruined shirt with shaking hands, told Kaitlyn just how much she was trying to hide her poor condition and fear.  
  
“Hello,” she said gently to the girl.  “I’m a priestess.  I see you’ve already met my son.”  She extended her hand, half to test if the girl was going to jerk away.  She didn’t, so she lifted up her chin.  “What happened to your face?” she asked gently, touching the swelling gingerly.  
  
“Your husband,” the girl growled weakly.  
  
Kaitlyn sighed and closed her eyes, and then looked over her shoulder at the two men peaking in the door.  “Really, George?”  
  
“She threatened to kill me.”  
  
“And you looked at her and decided you believed she could carry out her threat?”  
  
“To be fair, she somewhat deserved it,” the Captain said.  
  
Kaitlyn shook her head and stood back up, extending her hand.  “Come on, now.  Let’s get you cleaned up.  You’ll feel better.”  When the girl did not take it, she continued.  “I’ll do my best to deaden the pain, but your wounds will get infected if you leave them that way.  Besides, you’ll be warmer with some new clothes.  It’s cool out.”  
  
The blood elf did not take her hand, but instead slowly slid off the bed.  It was obvious that she was struggling to stand, much less to walk, but Kaitlyn simply stayed beside her in order to catch her if she fell.  She slowly directed her past the two men and pointed.  “There’s the washroom.  We’ll get you cleaned up, some new clothes, and then you can rest some more.  Kallae,” she said, turning her attention to her daughter.  “I’ll need your help, okay?”  
  
“Absolutely not,” George snapped.  “You can’t let her in there with that thing.”  
  
 “I am more than capable of handling this.  You’ve done quite enough,” Kaitlyn hissed back at him.  “Besides, this is an important part of her training.  If she wants to be a priestess, she needs to get used to the sight of blood and injuries.”  
  
Kallae had evidently ignored her parents’ argument and was already opening the door to the washroom and running to grab some towels.  Kaitlyn prodded the prisoner along gently and when the three of them made it into the washroom, she closed the door.  “Now then.  Let’s get those rags off of you and get you into a bath, all right?”  
  
The girl pulled away slightly and shook her head, and Kaitlyn smiled at her sadly.  “I’m afraid I’m not going to give you a choice in this, okay?  For all the reasons I told you,” she said, helping her to a stool and sitting her down on it.  “It’s just us women in here.  I locked the men out so you’ll be more comfortable, okay?”    
  
The girl did not resist anymore.  Instead she let the priestess slowly and carefully remove her tunic, boots, and trousers, only wincing as the shirt was pulled away from the burned skin.  Kaitlyn was careful to face her away from the only mirror in the room, but she did not take into account her daughter’s honesty.  
  
“Is she going to die, mother?” the girl blurted out, looking at the burns with wide eyes.  
  
“No, no,” Kaitlyn said quickly, frowning as the girl’s one eye widened and her shivering increased.  “She will heal with time.  Can you draw a bath, my dear?”    
  
Thank the Light that they had had the odd contraption that the gnomes had invented installed in their house.  “Plumbing” was what it was called, evidently.  She helped the girl over and slowly got her to sit in the bath, grabbing her hand and calling upon the Light to calm her when she gasped from her back touching the water.  
  
The girl was quiet, finally, and simply stared at the plumbing fixture with a mixture of fatigue and curiosity as Kaitlyn went about dumping some herbs into the bath to help relax her and help with the pain.  She was quietly explaining the uses to Kallae when the girl asked quietly, “Can I talk to her, mother?”  
  
“I don’t know if she will, but you can try,” she said, gently pulling off the girl’s eyepatch so she could wash her face.  That did get a slight bit of resistance, but not enough to stop her.   
  
“What’s your name?” Kallae asked quietly.  
  
The blood elf did not look over at the child, but she did answer after a few moments.  “Belidora.”  
  
“My father said . . . that you killed Alliance soldiers.  Is that true?”  
  
Kaitlyn was about to interrupt, say that George had no way of knowing that, but the girl replied before she could.  “I have, yes.”  
  
Kallae frowned slightly, but continued talking, “Why?”  
  
“Because they were trying to kill me,” Belidora replied weakly.  
  
“You shouldn’t kill our soldiers, still.  My brother is a soldier.  He tried to heal you.  Would you have killed him, if you had the chance?”  
  
The girl paused longer this time, but said quietly, “I tried.”  
  
Kaitlyn paused and stared at the girl for a moment, looking at her face carefully.  The blood elf did not acknowledge her, instead simply continuing to stare straight ahead.  Still, the scars on her face and the . . . the eye.  It was her.  The girl her son had told her about.  
  
“Kallae, come here,” the woman whispered quietly, and whispered her instructions into the girl’s ear.  When her daughter smiled and left, Kaitlyn turned her attention back to the prisoner.  “I’m sorry you’ve been through so much, my dear,” she said.  “I spoke with the Captain, and hopefully you will get to go home soon.”  
  
“My home is gone,” she growled, albeit weakly.  
  
“Well, home to the Horde, at least,” Kaitlyn replied gently.  “The King is a kind young man.  He just needs to ask you some questions.  He wouldn’t let any harm come to you, I’m sure.”  
  
“You don’t know that,” the blood elf replied.  “You can’t promise that. So just stop.”  
  
Kaitlyn sighed.  She knew in her heart that what she was saying was true, but there was likely little she could do to convince the girl of it.  She shook her head.  “Let’s wash your hair and get you out of the tub, dear.  You’re getting cold.”  
  
She did so, with no help from Belidora, who simply cringed when the water was poured on her head and cradled her injured arm.  Finally, Kaitlyn drained the tub and helped her out slowly, wrapping her in one of her robes and letting her sit down again.   
  
The young blood elf sat in silence for several minutes before speaking again.  “Mrs. Crawford, right?” she whispered.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“You should take your family.  Leave Stormwind as soon as you can,” she said quietly.  “I think . . . I think you know that Sylvanas isn’t going to lay siege to the city.  Not in the way you think.”  
  
There was a knock on the door.  
  
“Mama, I’m back,” Kallae said, poking her head in and carrying a bundle in her arms.  Kaitlyn waved her in and took the bundle from her.  There was not a lot she could do to help what the Warchief did, but something about the girl's warning bothered her.  She decided to change the subject all the same.   
  
“None of my clothes will probably fit you.  You elves are so petite.  So we had to go get you some new ones,” she said to the blood elf, who finally raised her eyes from the floor to look.  She gently put them on her lap.  “They’ll fit loose, but I don’t want anything clinging to your burns.”  
  
It was a bright red tunic with subtle gold stitching throughout and simple black trousers.  It was inexpensive, but fine, well made clothing.  
  
The colors of Quel’thalas.  
  
When the young prisoner did not respond, Kaitlyn continued, “We can get others if you prefer.”  
  
“N-no,” Belidora said, gripping them a bit tighter.  There was an odd twinge in her voice.  “Thank you.”  
  
Kaitlyn helped her get dressed.  She would have to wear her old boots, but they were still in decent condition.  Slowly, she opened the door and led the girl back into the den, which was now full.  
  
“Ah, Lieutentant Wildstar, Sergeant Driscoll, ladies,” she said, greeting the four.  “Welcome to our home.  I apologize for the mess.  I did not expect visitors,” she explained.  They glanced over at her and the blood elf and smiled weakly, then turned back to their Captain, who stopped his explanation he was giving to walk over.  
  
He did not acknowledge the blood elf, which by her reaction of simultaneously glaring at and shrinking away from him, was probably for the best.  He motioned for the Lieutentant to take her and mouthed a “be gentle” at him in warning.  When she was escorted to the other side of the room, he sighed and looked at Kaitlyn.  “I appreciate your help, Mrs. Crawford.  I can’t imagine she was a particularly pleasant patient.”  
  
“No, but I can’t find myself blaming her,” she said.  “The poor thing.  She’s just hurt and scared, no matter what she claims.”  
  
“Yes, I . . . I understand that, too,” he said, glancing back at her and shaking his head.    
  
“You will try to get her home, yes?”  
  
“Of course.  I’ll try, but it won’t be my decision, I’m afraid.  I’m confident the King will see her as an innocent victim in this.  He seems like a good man.  Speaking of which, we really do need to get going.  I’ve asked your son to come with us.  He has some rapport with the prisoner, so maybe he can keep her feeling a bit more calm.  Again, I thank you, and the Alliance thanks you.  You may have helped us stave off a war.”  
  
Kaitlyn smiled at him sadly, brushing some of her blonde hair behind her ear.  “She’s someone’s little girl, even if her parents are no longer living.  I would hope, if my son were in the same position as her, that some shaman in Orgrimmar would do the same for him.”  
  
Mikal sighed.  “They almost certainly wouldn’t.”  
  
“I know.  That doesn’t excuse us from trying, though.”

#

Blackwater glanced back at the girl as they walked along. She was no longer limping nearly as badly as she had before, which meant that if he did not watch her, she was likely to try and run. He had thought of trying to dissuade her from such an action, but it was clear that she had no interest in speaking with him. Besides, between he, the Lieutenant, the Sergeant, and the young paladin, she was unlikely to get very far. Even if she did, she was in the middle of Stormwind. The guards would catch her.

So, after what seemed like forever of walking in silence, they reached the castle. They stopped in the courtyard and the Captain turned around, pulling out a short length of rope. “Give me your hands,” he said firmly.

The blood elf frowned and backed away until she bumped into the Sergeant. She shook her head. Mikal expected as much, but just said calmly. “They won’t let you in there with the King unrestrained. I’ll tie you in the least uncomfortable way possible, but we need to get this over with, Bloodfeather.”

“I already told them. I’m not going to talk to him,” she said, frowning, then giving a bit of a smirk. “And if they’re afraid of someone who is unarmed and injured, then I’d be questioning his prowess.”

He ignored the dig and grabbed her uninjured wrist, nodding to Llenrus to hold her still. “We don’t really have time for this, girl,” he muttered. “We’re trying to prevent a war. Do you not see that?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “What makes you think I want to?”

Mikal gritted his teeth and finished binding her wrists. He kept his word and bound them in front of her so it wouldn’t pain her shoulder, but he tightened it so she would not try to squirm against it without that pain. When he was finished, he grabbed her good arm and hissed, “Come here. We’re going to have a talk, prisoner.”

He could feel her trying to resist him, but it was true, she was injured, and he dragged her to a bench around the corner from where they had been. He pushed her down on it and stood over her, crossing his arms. “Okay. Listen,” he said. “You may thirst for revenge in your grief. Light knows, I’d probably be the same way if I were in your position. So let me tell you what this war you want is going to look like, since you’re too blinded to see it.”

When she simply scowled at him instead of responding, he continued. “Your Horde will lose a war with us. You have lost too many soldiers in the recent past.”

“So have you.”

“But we outnumbered you to begin with,” he said, cutting her off. “I’m an officer in the Stormwind Army. I get intelligence briefings, girl. Your Horde exists because we do not wish to destroy it.”

“You just committed genocide…”

“Most of us do not wish to destroy it,” he said tiredly.

“Soldiers you send against it will just become new Forsaken…”

“And what of the rest of your forces?” he asked, fighting not to go down that road with her again. “And what of your friends? The orc and the troll? They think you’re dead. They obviously care about you, and you about them. It’s quite frankly your best quality.”

She gave him an odd look, but did not respond, so he continued. “What do you think they’ll be driven to in their grief? They’re both experienced, powerful shamans. They’re likely to volunteer for the front lines to avenge someone who isn’t even dead, and to kill people who had nothing to do with it in the first place. Is that what you really want to happen?”

When she did not say anything, simply glare at him, he bent down where he was near her eye level. “Listen. I am trying very, very hard to get you out of here. King Anduin Wrynn is a fair man. He likely has no interest in a war or in harming someone who was the victim of this terrible crime. But if he thinks all you desire is war, and the only thing you’ll do is take up arms against the Alliance and push for revenge, he will have a much harder time making the case to simply let you go.” He stood back up and pulled her to her feet. “It’s up to you how this goes. I’ve given you my advice.”

#

Belidora winced slightly as she was pushed down onto her knees, but she did not offer any resistance.  Doing so was becoming somewhat foolish, surrounded by a half dozen guards.  It was a bit of overkill, really.  
  
She glanced up and looked around the throne room.  In front of her was the throne itself, flanked by four gold lions.  Above her head was what appeared to be a map of Azeroth, although nowhere near complete and accurate.  It must not have been updated in decades.  Alliance banners bearing the lion crest lined the room.  It was a much more . . . lavish setup than the one in Orgrimmar.  
  
What was not there was the king himself.  The Captain had said what, that he was in Darnassus?  Maybe they had not sent for him yet…  
  
A door opened and an older human man walked through, his brow creased.  He was dressed in fine clothes, so obviously not a guard, but the young blood elf could not quite place him.  He walked toward them quickly and stood in front of the Captain, who quickly saluted.  
  
“What is going on here?” the old man asked.  
  
“Lord Greymane…” the Captain began, then started with his spiel.  
  
Greymane.  The former king of former Gilneas.  Belidora frowned slightly.  His hatred for the Horde, or at least the Forsaken, was well known.  Not that she could totally blame him.  She bit her lip for a moment, then said, “Excuse me.  Can you take these restraints off?  I’m not going to do anything.”  
  
He glanced down at her momentarily before the Captain quickly spoke, “I’d advise against it, sir.  She’s a soldier.”  
  
Asshole, she thought.  
  
They continued their talk above her head while she looked around the room some more.  She was not really listening - she knew the story already - but she could hear the older man’s shock and horror in his voice.  Well, he was a good actor, at least.  She looked over at Justin, who was at her left, and he gave her a weak smile, then sighed as the door opened yet again.  
  
In walked a young man dressed in the suit of royalty.  His blonde hair was pulled up in a ponytail and he wore a grim expression on his face.  He looked to be no older than the young paladin.  Belidora had never seen him before, but she knew exactly who this one was.  
  
He looked a lot like his father.  
  
The Alliance soldiers bowed slightly, but not completely, evidently wanting to keep the prisoner in their sight. He stopped in front of them several feet and frowned, looking them over and then having his eyes fall on her.  “Is this the one who could tell us?”  
  
“Yes, your majesty,” the Captain answered.  
  
He nodded and looked down at her.  His face was friendlier than what she expected, but she frowned back at him.  The Alliance still had let the anger and hatred fester under his rule, never reaching out and talking (although Sylvanas was not easy to talk to).  It was them that let monsters into the rank of General or higher.  She silently reminded herself that he was still her enemy.  
  
“What is your name?” he asked with surprising politeness.  
  
“Can you untie me?” she asked, choosing not to answer him, at least not yet.  When he shook his head, she glanced back at the Captain.  “These restraints are insulting.”  
  
He glared down at her.  “We have gone over this.  He’s the High King and you’re a Horde soldier…”  
  
“That doesn’t mean I’d hurt a child,” she said snarkily.  
  
The Captain reached down and grabbed her shoulder, the injured one, and dug his fingers into it, causing her to grimace.  He hissed in his ear, “What did I tell you about…”  
  
“That’s enough,” Anduin ordered, and the man let her go.  She glared up at him.  His face was no longer friendly, but he did not seem particularly angry either.  “Stand up.”  
  
Belidora slowly did so, grimacing when pain shot through her wounded knee as she straightened it.  She silently cursed herself for showing pain, but it was too late to take it back now.  She looked up and met his gaze as evenly as she could.  He stepped forward and raised his hand above her head.  Despite herself, the young huntress shrunk back, her ears drooping.    
  
He was a priest, but the Light could burn horrifically.  
  
It did not.  Of course it didn’t.  Instead, she felt the pain of her many injuries fading, to the point it was almost gone, but not quite.  She opened her eye and looked down at her glowing golden hands.  Slowly, it faded, and she looked up at him.  He was still frowning, but he stepped back and regarded her.  
  
She felt a wave of shame wash over her.  Phogrim and Jof would be so angry at her if they had seen her show such fear to the High King of the Alliance, especially when there was not even any real danger.  
  
“What is your name?” he repeated, bringing her out of her rumination.  
  
“Belidora Bloodfeather,” she replied quietly.  Her voice was so hoarse.  She had not noticed it before then.  
  
“You are a soldier?”  
  
“Yes.  I’m a huntress,” she replied.  
  
He nodded at her.  “I’m sure you have served the Horde with courage and distinction, and perhaps the Alliance before then.”  
  
She shook her head.  “I was a little child when we were in the Alliance.”  
  
Anduin nodded and sighed.  “I am very sorry for what you’ve been through.   All this loss in the last few days.  You have my deepest sympathies, as well as those of the other leaders of the Alliance.”  
  
She stared at him for a long time, what seemed like hours but was probably less than a minute.  She wanted desperately to cry, but she knew that her friends would be horrified if they found out she cried in front of the High King.  So, instead, she did the only thing she could do to stop herself.  She laughed.  
  
Anduin raised an eyebrow, but did not question her about the odd reaction.  It took several seconds for her to muster the words to speak, and in spite of herself, her voice still cracked slightly.  “It’s okay.  I’ve gotten used to it.”  
  
The king sighed and looked over at Blackwater.  “Take her restraints off, if you would.”  
  
“That’s not a wise decision,” Greymane started, but Anduin silenced him with a glare.  
  
“Do not question my orders.  Captain, now, please.”  
  
Mikal let out a soft growl, but pulled out a knife.  He easily sawed through the ropes and whispered in her ear.  “Please, Light, behave yourself.”  
  
Belidora tried to let her arms drop to her side, but the pain from her shoulder flared up again and instead she held her wrist, trying to make it look natural.  Justin had said it would take long term care to heal properly.  The king’s spell had evidently just been to temporarily ease her pain.    
  
Anduin watched her silently and finally asked.  “Can you tell us what you remember?  If it is one of our subjects, I swear to you, we will bring them to justice.”  
  
Belidora watched him and said quietly.  “I don’t believe you.”  
  
Anduin frowned again and rubbed his face.  “I assure you, I did not order anything like this to-”  
  
“I know,” Belidora said, cutting him off.  He was evidently not used to being cut off, being a king and all, but he let her continue.  She took the opportunity.  “I don’t think you have it in you to do that.  But unfortunately for you, I think you know the Warchief has no such scruples.”  
  
She heard a growl come from Greymane, but it was silenced with another glare from Anduin.  He looked back at her, but if he recognized the threat, he did not acknowledge it.  “That’s why I would like your help.  It would be better to bring those who actually committed this horrible crime to justice, rather than start a war where more innocent people on both sides would die.”  
  
She looked down slightly.  “I don’t think you really need my help, and I think you know that,” she said quietly.  “I would like to leave n-”  
  
The door opened yet again, and in stepped a figure that was only vaguely familiar.  He looked like a human to a degree, except where the whites of his eyes should be, they were black, while the pupils glowed red.  He was dressed in a ridiculous looking outfit as well.  
  
It was Wrathion, the Black Prince, seemingly come back from nowhere.  
  
Anduin appeared to be annoyed by the sudden intrusion.  “I told you, I don’t need your counsel on this,” he said, looking over his shoulder.    
  
It seemed that their conversation continued, but Belidora was frozen, staring at him.  She had heard a story, shortly after the overthrow of Garrosh, from some of her friends about him.  He had played the two factions against one another and had eventually favored the Alliance, probably due to his affection for the young then-Prince Anduin.    
  
He had intended to unite Azeroth under one banner - the Alliance banner.  The fact that the Horde would have to be destroyed, their armies forced into internment camps or worse, had made little difference to him.  What stopped him was that Anduin’s father had backed down from such bloodshed.  
  
What if . . . What if he was unable to accept his plan failing?  She had no proof, but still, even if she were wrong, he did free Garrosh.  How many lives could have been saved if not for him?  
  
The two young men were in a heated argument now, but Belidora did not bother to listen to them.  It did not really matter what they were saying.  Her gaze slowly fell on the young paladin standing next to her.  He was a little more relaxed than the other guards.  He probably assumed that she would never try to hurt him.  
  
He was right, of course.  He was a good boy, and she would never hurt him, not after he protected her.  
  
She could use his sword, though.  
  
She waited for him to turn his head to listen to the argument when she snatched the hilt of it and pulled it free from its scabbard with her good arm.  He yelled in surprise and grabbed for her, but she was just quick enough that he missed.  Still, the sword was uncomfortably heavy and obviously meant to be wielded with both hands.  That, and the fact that pain shot through her knee as she tried to launch herself forward, slowed her down.  
  
It slowed her down just enough for stars to explode in her vision as the hilt of another sword slammed into her temple, knocking her flat onto her face.    
  
Several things happened at once.  She could raise her head just enough to see the surprised expressions coming from Anduin and Wrathion.  Greymane began yelling at the king, telling him, “I told you not to untie her!”  She could also hear the Captain yelling at the young paladin.  She ignored all of the yelling and tightened her grip on the sword, trying to push herself back up.  
  
Her movement was met by a prick of pain and the sensation of a sword pressed to the side of her throat.  “Let it go,” a male voice, this one familiar but unidentifiable, snapped at her.  She gripped it tighter for a second, then released her grip, staring at Wrathion.    
  
The strike had been hard, and she began to feel her vision go blurry as gauntleted hands grabbed her arms and began to shackle them behind her back.    
  
The pain shot through her shoulder again, this time white hot, and the last thing she saw was the prince’s mouth curl up in a smile.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow it's been awhile since I updated this. Sorry about that. I have some later scenes already written so it shouldn't be that long again.
> 
> As always, reviews are very much appreciated. They're my favorite thing to get.


	10. Chapter 10

_**Author’s Note:  See previous chapters for disclaimers.**_  
  
_**Also, I’m kind of having to shift gears a bit, because what the hell, Sylvanas?**_  
  
#  
  
“Please, Champion Blightcaller, we need to see the Warchief. There’s been an emergency,” Wellington explained quietly. They were standing just outside of the entrance to the Royal Quarter, him in front and Jof and Phogrim a few steps behind him. They were facing the Forsaken ranger, who appeared wholly uninterested.  
  
“She’s in a meeting.”  
  
“It’s important.”  
  
“Look, why don’t you just give me a message, and I’ll decide how important it is,” he snapped, causing the little orc on Wellington’s shoulder to grab his ear again in a vice grip. The Tauren winced slightly.  
  
Before he could reply, however, Phogrim spoke up, his voice tired. “It’s . . . It’s not something that should be talked about where anyone in Undercity can hear, sir.”  
  
“Half of these people are missing ears. I’m sure it’s fine,” Nathanos snorted. When the small group just stared back at him with blank expressions, he rolled his eyes. “Fine. Don’t expect me to try to spare you from her wrath if she does not want to talk to you.”  
  
They entered the corridor and walked in silence past the guards. Well, silence until Atas bent down and spoke in Wellington’s ear. “Who’s that?”  
  
“The Warchief’s champion,” the priest replied, glancing up.  
  
“He’s mean. I don’t like him.”  
  
“Shhh,” the Tauren replied as they got to the entrance. There was a heated discussion going on just inside the door.  
  
“We need supplies, Warchief,” a male voice said. Orc, by the accent. “So much of Orgrimmar’s population is off fighting the war against the Legion, we don’t have enough to tend the crops. I have a city to run. Can you just please talk to him?”  
  
“Why don’t you talk to Theron yourself, Saurfang? It is not my job to make sure you all play together nicely.”  
  
“I sent him a letter a week ago. I never got a response. Look, the region around Silvermoon was spared most of the Legion’s attacks. It’s the best farming land we have.”  
  
Well, it seemed that Saurfang never was going to get a response.  
  
The door swung open and the two stopped their conversation, instead turning to look at the newcomers. The Warchief sighed and rolled her eyes. “What now, Nathanos? I’m busy.”  
  
“These idiots have some sort of news for you from Quel’thalas,” he said, jerking a thumb in their direction. When they did not step forward, he growled and pushed Wellington’s shoulder. Of course, he did not have near enough strength to move him, but the priest felt it best if he walked inside anyway. The other two followed silently.  
  
“Oh, good. Maybe we can settle this little dispute over crops,” Sylvanas said, disinterested.  
  
Wellington glanced over at the High Overlord, who was watching them. The old orc was obviously much more adept at reading expressions, because his curiosity quickly turned to concern. Still, he did not speak. Oh, how Wellington wished he would say something. Instead, he glanced back at the Warchief.  
  
After standing in silence for a few more seconds, a voice came from behind Wellington. It was Phogrim. “Warchief . . . I’m sorry. It’s gone.”  
  
“What’s gone?” she asked, frowning at him.  
  
The young shaman stood there for a second and swallowed, then continued. “Everything. Everything in Quel’thalas. Silvermoon, the villages. It’s . . . It’s all been destroyed.”  
  
A dead, awful silence fell over the room as all three commanders stared at the soldiers. It seemed to linger in the air until an ear piercing screech came from Sylvanas.  
  
“ _What_?”  
  
Wellington stepped back a moment, pressing his ears to his head to block out the sound. The other two stumbled back as well, covering their ears, as well as the little boy. Still, he managed to speak. “It . . It appears to have been a mana bomb. I’m so sorry. We took a portal there, to look for someone who was AWOL and everything was gone. We found Atas here.” He gestured with his head to the boy on his shoulder. “He was near the explosion when it happened.”  
  
She stopped her approach and simply glared at the group, but Wellington thought that he saw a deep pain in her expression. He glanced over at Saurfang and Blightcaller, who were standing behind the Warchief. Saurfang’s expression hardened and he stepped forward. “I will gather the others, Warchief, and bring them here,” he said without prompting. She simply nodded in return, not looking at him. He quickly left the room as the three parted to give him room.  
  
They stared at each other for an uncomfortably long period of time until Sylvanas straightened. When she spoke, her voice was cold. “That little boy can tell me what happened?”  
  
_Oh, poor Atas_ , Wellington thought, but nodded. He reached up and gently extricated the boy from where he had wrapped his arms around the tauren’s horn. He picked him up and set him down on the ground in front of the Warchief. The boy quickly thumped himself on the chest in a proper orcish salute. He had practiced with Phogrim for nearly an hour.  
  
Sylvanas put her hands on her knees and bent down, forcing a weak smile for the boy. “Hello. What is your name?” When she got a blank stare in reply, she switched to orcish and repeated the question.  
  
“Atas.”  
  
“Atas. Can you tell your Warchief what happened?”  
  
“I was fishing with Miss Belidora. Someone blew up where we were. A demon, I think. It looked like a demon. Like Mr. Champion.”  
  
She frowned and glanced up at the adults. Wellington sighed. “It looks like Nathanos. Humans, probably.”  
  
“What exactly did they do, Atas?” Sylvanas asked  
  
“There was a big ship, in the sky. Like a zeppelin without balloons. Miss Belidora saw it and grabbed my hand and we tried to run. There was a big blast. Then, there was a voice. Miss Belidora grabbed onto me like this,” he said, making his hands into a hug. “Then . . . I don’t remember what happened. I think we got blasted. When I woke up, she was hurt really bad, and the demon was gone. She said she needed my help, and we tried to come here to find you, but they caught us.”  
  
“Who’s they?”  
  
“Another demon. And some . . . Different elves.”  
  
“Night elves,” Phogrim volunteered.  
  
Atas continued. “And a . . . A draenei.” Well, at least he knew that race. “We tried to get away, but Miss Belidora was hurt and they tied her up. Then we got to a place with a big eagle, and she told me to run, so I did, and I saw Jof and he helped me. But now she’s gone.”  
  
Sylvanas stood back up and patted the boy gently on the head. “Thank you, Atas,” she said, almost shakily. “You are very brave. I’m sure you will make a fine warrior someday.”  
  
The boy smiled and looked back up at Wellington proudly, but the tauren just sighed at him before turning his attention back to the Warchief. “Belidora is the girl we were looking for in the first place. We tried to get to her, but they’d forced her onto a gryphon before we could,” he said, speaking in common. “As far as we can tell, they went to Stormwind. I’m sorry, the testimony of a child is not as useful, but…”  
  
“It’s . . . It’s alright. I thank you for informing me of this,” she said, her voice still strange. “You’re dismissed. Take the boy home. Undercity is no place for children.”  
  
“Warchief,” Jof said quietly. It was the first time he had spoken in hours. She glanced up at him, and he continued. “We be havin’ a request.” When she did not stop him, he proceeded. “Belidora . . . She our friend. A good, loyal, brave soldier for da Horde. Could ya please talk to da Alliance, ask for her back, safe an’ sound? Dey not be needin’ a hostage anymore. She not a threat to them. I’m sure…”  
  
“Do you really think I’m going to talk to the Alliance after this?” she snapped. The anger had returned in full force.  
  
Phogrim spoke up this time. “If you don’t think that’s wise, Warchief, then please, at least send your Deathstalkers to try and get her out. Please, Warchief, if not for her protecting Atas, then we wouldn’t even have the information that we have now.”  
  
“I don’t even really know this girl,” Sylvanas said, but she was at least careful not to yell this time. “I’m not endangering the Deathstalkers to retrieve a common soldier. I’m sorry, but I have the entire Horde to worry about, not just someone based on sentiment.”  
  
Wellington sighed and scooped up Atas, putting him on his shoulder. He had talked to the other two about this request long before they had gotten to Undercity and tried to dissuade them from it. He had known the Warchief’s answer before they even asked, and had not wanted them to be disappointed. Still…  
  
“Ya know, she looked up to ju,” Jof said, his voice angry. Sylvanas turned her attention to him. He continued without prompting, or permission. “When she was little, she idolized ju, idolized da entire ranger corps. And she a good girl now.” When Sylvanas frowned and let her shoulders fall slightly, he said something that made Wellington want to smack him and simultaneously fear for his life.  
  
“If ya not try to help a girl like her, den what ya die for in the first place, Warchief?”  
  
Sylvanas’s eyes narrowed, and at the same time seemed to glow red more violently. Jof did not shrink away from her this time, instead simply glaring back at her.  
  
“Get out,” she said quietly.  
  
Wellington grabbed Jof’s arm and started to pull. He felt the troll tense - a stupid proposition, since the tauren was far stronger - then slowly relent and turn around. He moved his grip to his wrist and pulled him hastily out of the room, with Phogrim following close behind. “Are you absolutely insane? She could have killed you!” Wellington snapped.  
  
“I don’t care.”  
  
“Stop it. Do you think this is what your friend would want? For you to die?” the priest argued. “We are the only people in the Horde who know where she is. She desperately needs for us to stay alive.” When the troll still glared at him, he looked over at Phogrim. “Back me up here?”  
  
The orc sighed and shook his head. “Sometimes . . . I think the Warchief needs to hear the truth. Come on. Let’s go back to Orgrimmar.”  
  
#  
  
What a difference a week made.  
  
Phogrim looked up at the fireworks exploding over the sky of Orgrimmar and frowned slightly.  A couple of weeks ago, he would have expected the defeat of the Burning Legion - as unlikely a miracle as that was until it had actually happened - to be a moment of unprecedented elation across Azeroth.  Until less than a week ago, it would have been true.  Now, though, it was punctuated with grief.  
  
  
The remaining sin’dorei - almost all of them soldiers who had been fighting away from home - had had invitations from Saurfang, Bloodhoof, and Windrunner to settle in their cities.  They would work to find them free housing and make it as much as a home as radically different cities could be.  They were still sons and daughters of the Horde, after all, and family did not abandon one another.  The Council of Six in Dalaran had likewise offered them some housing there, if they were more comfortable.  It was unlikely that the Silver Covenant would raise as much outrage about it as usual - it had been their homes and families that were destroyed too.  
  
  
He sighed and continued walking until he got to his mother’s hut.  He stepped inside and blinked to adjust his eyes to the light coming from the fire.  
  
  
His sister was sitting in front of it, holding her baby, whom she and her mate had named Krish. The little orcling was babbling and grabbing at her hair while she spoke to him quietly.  Finally, she glanced over her shoulder and smiled.  “Phogrim!”  
  
  
“Hello, Seneda,” he said, forcing a smile.  “How are you?  And how’s my nephew?”    
  
  
She stood up and handed the baby over without prompting.  “Krish is getting strong.  Soon he’ll be as strong as you.  I’ll give him a few more months, tops.”  
  
  
He rolled his eyes at her and smiled at the baby, who was now trying to grab at Phogrim’s much more substantial tusks.  Suddenly, someone wrapped their arms around him from behind, and he turned to see his mother.  “You’re back!”  
  
  
“Yes,” he said slowly, turning to hug her with one arm while still holding the baby.  “I am.”  
  
  
“Did you help strike down the dark titan?  Tell me about it, brother,” Seneda said.  
  
  
“I, um, was not there for the final assault,” he said slowly, extricating himself and sitting down on the stool by the fire.  “I was in Undercity at the time.”  
  
  
The women’s facial expressions fell slightly.  “Doing what?” Seneda asked.  
  
  
“Speaking to the Warchief.  Jof, Wellington, and I had taken a portal to Silvermoon after Belidora overstayed her leave,” he started.  
  
  
His mother covered her mouth and walked over quickly, hugging him.  “Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry,” she said quietly, her voice cracking.  
  
  
“Stop, stop,” he said quickly, but his voice was still a little strained.  He looked at the two crestfallen orcs.  “She’s still alive, as far as I know.  We saw her.”  
  
  
“Then where is she?” Seneda asked.  
  
  
“Stormwind,” he said, looking back down at the baby, who was still trying to grab his tusks.  “We found her in Aerie Peak.  Jof tried to get to her, but before he could, they’d already forced her into a cage that the gryphon was carrying,” he said, then growled slightly, utterly confusing the baby.  “He said she was burned pretty badly, I guess from the bomb.”  
  
  
“How do you know she was going to Stormwind?” his mother asked.  
  
  
“A little orcling orphan that was with her and managed to run told us that’s what the Alliance said.”  
  
  
“But why?” Seneda blurted out.  “She’s not anyone who’s high ranking.  She has no family where she could be influential.  She’s just a common soldier.  Why would they take her?”  
  
  
“A hostage until they can get safely away?  I don’t know.  None of us do,” he said helplessly, then sighed.  “Poor Jof is beside himself.  He won’t sleep and barely eats.  He keeps thinking there was something he could have done to get to her before they left.”  Phogrim frowned.  “I might be somewhat to blame for that.”  
  
  
“Did you tell the Warchief?” his mother asked.  
  
  
“Yes.”  
  
  
“And?”  
  
  
“What Seneda said.  She’s no one important,” he sighed, frowning.  
  
#  
  
The waves crashed slowly onto the beach of the Echo Isles, and the stars shone in the sky.  Jof flopped onto his back in the sand and stared at them for a few minutes.  It was a beautiful night out, and the celebratory bonfire and laughter echoed through the air.  Still, the lack of sleep and food was starting to get to him, although he was sure that he probably could not work up an appetite if he tried.  So, not wanting to ruin anyone else’s fun, he decided to go off by himself for awhile.  
  
He finally sat up and picked up the bow that he had hooked onto his belt.  It was Belidora’s.  He had picked it up when they had found it in Eversong Woods and he had thought - perhaps foolishly - that he could return it to her when they found her.  Then, of course, he screwed that up.  He sighed and examined it in the moonlight.  It was dark, rustic looking wood, and had a long crack through one of the ends.  He was fairly sure that if he pulled the string back, it would snap in two.  Which meant she never was able to draw it back, either.  
  
He sighed.  It was an ugly thing - one of the “rewards” from the Horde for the Broken Shore debacle.  The armorer had replaced their weapons that they had lost when they had been taken prisoner in Stormheim.  There were, after all, plenty of extras that were never handed out.  
  
“Ya know, if ju want to learn da bow, ya can use a regular size one.  No need for a grown troll ta be usin’ a trainin’ bow,” a voice behind him said.  
  
Jof turned his head and saw a troll with long, gray braids standing behind him.  Sorun, an elder shaman of the Darkspears, and his mentor.  The older troll smiled around his tusks and limped forward, using his cane to get along.  It had been many years, perhaps over a century, since Jorun had gone to battle.  Jof was not entirely sure how old he was.  
  
Jof tried to return the smile, but his heart was not in it.  He sighed.  “It not belong ta me, sir.  Friend of mine.  Little elf.  Dat why it be small.”  
  
Sorun did not reply to him until he got close and painfully sat down next to him with a grunt.  “Ya fatha’ told me that ju lost a friend, da blood elf dat was with you in Stormheim.  I be sorry ta hear that, cub.  But, he said she may still be alive.  Dere still be hope,” the old shaman said.  “Either way, ya not be helpin’ her by poutin’ on the beach.”  
  
Jof frowned slightly and stared off into the ocean.  If his father had been talking to the old shaman, he was afraid of what else he might have said.  
  
As if reading his mind, Sorun continued.  “Ya might feel bettah if ju let old Sorun listen ta what’s on your mind.  Helped after the Broken Shore and Stormheim, ya?”  
  
“This all my fault,” Jof blurted out.  “I coulda stopped dem.  I froze, and now who knows what dey be puttin’ her through.”  He narrowed his eyes.  “I shoulda done somethin’.  I’m a coward.”  
  
“It would not have helped da girl for ya to be captured too.”  
  
“At least she would not be facin’ dem alone.  Ju know what dey did to us,” Jof said, turning to look at him.  
  
The old troll sighed.  “I was not there when ya friend was taken.  I don’t know what ju coulda done, if dere be anyt’ing.  There be nothin’ to gain from torturin’ yourself over it, though.  Da only thing ya can do now is try to get her back.”  
  
Jof turned away and stared off at the sea again, pulling his long legs closer to his chest and clutching the bow tighter.  After several moments, Sorun put his hand on his shoulder, causing the younger shaman to jump slightly.  He was so tense he was not sure he could move.  
  
“See, dis why ya not ready ta learn all da healin’ arts,” Sorun said, seemingly out of the blue.  
  
Jof looked over at him, confused at the apparent change of topic.  Sorun continued.  “Ya always been such a tendah-hearted pup, ever since I started teachin’ ju.  Dat why ya nevah made much of a healer, when ya communication wit’ da elements otherwise been so skilled.”  
  
Jof frowned at his apparent insult.  “I thought bein’ ‘empathetic’ made ju a bettah one.”  
  
“It does, ta a point, but ya ‘ave ta ask da water spirit nicely.  She be a sensitive one, an’ if ju panic and get short wit’ her, she not be doin’ what ju want her to do,” Sorun explained.  “Da fact is, when ju be a good shaman, da hardest t’ing there is is to heal da wounded.  It easy to call down fire and bolts of lightnin’ on ya enemies, or ta command the earth itself ta tremble for ju.  It be much harder ta deal wit’ a young warrior whose blood be spillin’ out an’ needs ya ta save dem.  It can be hard ta look dem in da eyes when they be scared an’ in pain.  It not dat da spells be harder.  It’s ya love for ya friends dat makes it hard.  Ya don’t want dem ta suffer or die.”    
  
Jof sat and watched him silently until Sorun got back up.  “If ya failed ta act, or ya found dat da spirits not listenin’ ta ya when ya tried, dat was why, pup. It not be cowardice, but love.  Love nevah be anyt’ing ta be ashamed of.”  
  
The younger shaman sat up and sighed. When he did not say anything, Sorun continued. “Go get some food in ya belly. It make you better. Ya fought against the Burning Legion and we won, child. The others want to thank you. It be good for you to see that there’s still a lot of good out there, after all ya seen.”  
  
Jof figured that Sorun was not going to leave, so he acquiesced and stood up slowly, walking over to the bonfire. He stayed along the outskirts, however, and watched the dancing and laughing continue in the middle of the group. Zamja shoved a partial rack of pork ribs into his hand, and when Jof reached towards the pouch on his belt to pay him, the cook laughed. “Ya be a hero of the Broken Isles and Argus. It on the house.”  
  
Somehow that made the troll feel a little bit worse. He started eating it, tossing the bones into the fire as he went, when another troll whom he used to spar with as a boy plopped down next to where he was sitting with two mugs of frog venom brew. “Hey! I haven’t seen ya since da rebellion!” Xejan laughed. “I see ya got some new scars. Been fightin’ demons, eh?”  
  
Jof glanced down and thought about telling him where they really came from, but he had had enough deep conversation for the night. Instead, he took a large gulp of the brew and nodded. A mistake - his lack of food caused it to hit his system almost instantly and he had to shake his head to clear his vision.  
  
“Well, I thank ya for ya service,” Xejan cackled, slapping him hard on the shoulder, causing him to spill his drink slightly. The other troll was obviously already quite drunk. “I been havin’ to watch over the villages, make sure the supply side of da Horde is still healthy and strong. It not bad work, just not a lot of glory, ya know?”  
  
Jof started to respond to him with a large, heavy hand fell on his shoulder. He glanced up to see a large male orc staring down at him. It was a herald from Orgrimmar. “Got a message for you, Jofkalzkal,” the man said, handing him a scroll. Jof frowned and took it. He hated that name, and none of his friends even knew it.  The only place it was on record was with the Horde military.  
  
“What the fel kind of name is _that_?” Xejan laughed, but the shaman ignored him.  He was turning the scroll around in his hand and when he saw the seal, he froze.  
  
It was the seal of the Dark Lady.  



	11. Chapter 11

**Author’s Note:  See other chapters for copyright disclaimer.**  
  
Jof gritted his teeth and stepped off of the zeppelin in Tirisfal, walking down the stairs of the decrepit tower slowly, then slowly making his way to Brill.  It would be faster to simply take a bat than to walk through the long, abandoned corridors of Lordaeron to get to the throne room.  
  
Not that he had any desire to start this meeting.  The scroll he had received the previous day had been short and to the point.  
  
_Jofkalzkal.  Meet me in Undercity tomorrow morning.  I wish to speak with you._  
  
Usually getting a personal summons from a Warchief would be a cause for some excitement.  The troll had a feeling that was not the case after what he had said to her a week ago.  
  
He paid the bat handler and hopped on, letting the beast carry him through the sewers as he ruminated.  He still did not really regret what he had said.  It was true, as far as he was concerned.  With the boy king in power - and probably desperate to prevent a full blown war - she could have asked for anything in the world.  It was her own hatred that kept her from doing it.  
  
He should have known after Stormheim that Sylvanas would do nothing to protect a common soldier.  And now, with war starting any day, there was not much hope for the poor girl.  
  
He slid off the bat and walked to the Royal Quarter, then past the guards down the long hallway.  He reached the room and glanced in.  She was speaking with Nathanos, but turned around and smiled at him.  It was a surprisingly pleasant smile.  Well, for her.  Jof bowed his head and saluted her quickly.  
  
“Ah, shaman, you’re right on time,” she said.  Her voice was friendly.  “Come in, I have something to discuss with you.”  
  
He nodded and stepped forward, walking over to her.  He towered over her and her companion by a few feet, but she was still a far more threatening presence than he was.  Jof thought about offering an apology, no matter how fake it was, to stem what he feared was coming.    
  
“Come,” she said, waving him forward and turning around.  “We’ll walk around the Undercity as we speak.  I grow tired of seeing the same walls day in and day out.  Nathanos, please let me know if anyone comes in to speak with me and let them know I’ll return shortly.”  
  
The man simply nodded.  He was always much more polite to Sylvanas than he was to literally anyone else.  
  
Jof followed her, careful to walk a step or so behind, which was a bit difficult with his long legs.  The talking did not start until they had already gotten well out of the hallway.  “I wrote to King Wrynn, as you requested,” she said nonchalantly.  
  
The troll blinked.  That was not the news that he expected to hear at all.  He was afraid to ask, but he swallowed and did so anyway.  “Did he say anyt’ing?”  
  
“In a way, yes, but . . . I’m sorry, but I’m afraid it is not the news you wanted to hear,” she said sadly.  
  
Jof froze and stared at her, until she had to stop walking and turn around.  Belidora’s injuries had looked severe, even at a distance.  Even if they had not killed her, she might have died from them before ever reaching Stormwind.  He swallowed.  “Is she…?”  
  
“She’s . . . still alive,” Sylvanas said quietly.  She had the tone of a mother trying to spare her child from knowing some horrible truth.  She sighed and pulled a scroll out.  The blue Alliance crest seal was broken.  “It’s from your young friend.  It seems it was written under duress.  I’m sorry.  It seems I underestimated the Alliance’s cruelty.  It may be best if you read it in private.”  
  
Jof took at it and stared at it, still rolled up, in his hand.  He wanted desperately to rip it open and read it, but what she had said gave him pause.  He glanced down again and his eyes narrowed.  There were flecks of blood on the edges of the parchment.  She had been bleeding while writing it.  
  
“It appears the boy king is uninterested in negotiations,” Sylvanas continued, turning and beginning to walk again.  Jof followed her closely, still holding the scroll in his hand.  “I told him that without any gestures of goodwill from the Alliance, we would have to retaliate in kind.  And, well, that was one of the responses I received.”  She turned down a relatively abandoned corridor and Jof followed suit.  
  
The troll glanced back and forth.  There were not even any guards down this corridor.  It must lead to a dead end.  He glanced up at Sylvanas.  “Should I…?”  
  
She looked back at him and frowned.  “You may if you wish.  I warn you, it is quite disturbing.”  
  
Jof looked back down at the scroll in his hand and swallowed.  He had never both wanted and not wanted to read something at the same time in his entire life.  Still, he owed his friend that much, to hear what she was going to say.  He peeled open the letter and began to read. It was written in Common with an obviously trembling hand.  Dark reddish brown stains covered it, both conditions making it difficult to read.  
  
_Warchief,_  
  
_I am writing on behalf of His Majesty, King Anduin Wrynn._  
  
_He has declined your request._  
  
_I don’t know what they want.  I don’t know why they’re doing this._  
  
_They keep sending this man in.  He calls himself an Inquisitor.  He does things to me.  He burns and cuts and-_  
  
_I don’t know what he wants me to say.  I just want him to stop._  
  
_Please, I’m sorry.  I just want to go home._  
  
Jof crushed the scroll in his hand.  He could not force himself to read further, although there was more written.  He looked up at Sylvanas and said quietly, “Ya have to do somethin’, Warchief.”  
  
“I don’t even know where she is, child.  I’m sorry,” she said quietly in return.  
  
Jof looked down at the scroll in his hand again, then back up.  “May I be dismissed?”  
  
She nodded, and he turned and left without another word.  
  
#  
  
Jof threw the scroll on the chest next to his sleeping furs as soon as he returned home, then collapsed onto them, burying his face in them.  Stupid!  Cowardly!  He had just stood there and let Belidora be dragged off by those monsters.  He knew, or should have known, what they were going to do to the poor girl.  They’d already turned the sin’dorei into barely more than a memory, and he had let them take her.  
  
Worst still, she had looked over at him before they took her.  She knew he was there and had done nothing to save her.  He had disgraced his ancestors and the Loa and-  
  
“Hey mon!  Get up!” a cheerful voice yelled from the door.  Jof forced his face up and looked.  It was Xejan again, standing in his doorway, quite uninvited.  His fellow shaman smiled at him until he saw the tears in the other troll’s eyes.  
  
“’Ey, what be da matter?”  
  
Jof sat up and rubbed his face.  What was he supposed to tell him?  That he was crying because he was a worthless coward?  He glanced over and grabbed the scroll, stomping over to the other troll and shoving it into his hand.    
  
“Dis be from a friend of mine.  Little elf huntress dat da Alliance bastards took after dey destroyed Quel’thalas,” he said.  Xejan frowned and opened it as Jof continued.  
  
“They’re nothin’ but monsters.”  
  
#  
  
Sylvanas Windrunner walked back to her throne room at a leisurely pace.  That had worked . . . better than she had expected.  
  
Nathanos was still silently standing guard, as she had ordered him to.  Such a good champion he was.  He glanced over when she walked into the room, but he did not say anything until she had made it back to her seat.  
  
“How did it go, my Queen?”  
  
“Excellent.  The troll took it with him.  With any luck, he will spread it around to the rest of the troops.”  
  
Nathanos nodded and turned away with a soft hum.  Sylvanas appraised him for several moments before speaking.  “Do you disapprove?”  
  
“Of course not, my Queen.  It’s just that . . . I’ve dealt with these three before.  They’re not too bright, but they are loyal soldiers, despite their . . . unfortunate behavior the other day.  It seems unnecessary.  They would fight for you if you simply asked them to.  After all, they discovered the destruction of Quel’thalas.  They know what the Alliance is capable of.”  
  
“True, but it’s not for them.  It’s for the others,” she said, reclining slightly.  “The soldiers are angry, of course, over what happened in Quel’thalas, but to many of them, it’s not personal enough.  The sin’dorei were good allies, but too few in number for much of the western Horde to have a relationship with them.  
  
“But this girl . . . what’s her name?”  
  
“Belidora,” Nathanos replied.  “Young volunteer soldier, usually works as a scout or messenger.”  
  
“Yes, that,” Sylvanas said.  “She’s just a normal soldier doing her job.  She could have been any of them.  Anyone’s sister, anyone’s daughter.  The fact of the matter is that this travesty is too much for most of the forces to wrap their heads around.  This brings it down to the plight of one brave young soldier and all the atrocities the Alliance has to offer.”  
  
Nathanos grunted.  “What if the troll figures out the ploy?  He is unlikely to be happy to have been used in such a way.”  
  
Sylvanas shrugged.  “It may not be a lie.  After all, the Alliance brutally abused them before.  Cut out the poor thing’s eye.  We have no idea what they’re doing to the girl.  Which will make the troll’s story all the more convincing.  The perfect little martyr.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll get back to more Alliance stuff next chapter.


End file.
